


Stiles Stilinski: Spy!

by AnnoyinglyCute, eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adaptation, Awkward Sexual Situations, Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, First Kiss, Inappropriate Erections, Inappropriate Humor, Innuendo, Inspired by a Movie, Jackson's an asshole, M/M, One-Sided Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Peter is his own warning, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy Derek, Spy Everyone, Spy Lydia, Spy Scott, Spy Stiles, Spy Theo, fantastic art, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnoyinglyCute/pseuds/AnnoyinglyCute, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski, a desk-bound CIA analyst, volunteers to go undercover to infiltrate the world of a deadly arms dealer, and prevent diabolical global disaster when the field agent he's assigned to — and in love with — is killed while on a mission to retrieve the coordinates for a nuclear device.</p><p>He might even make it out of this alive if Agent Derek Hale would stay the hell out of his way.</p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>A Sterek adaptation of the movie Spy.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will leave my various thanks until after the reveals are done, but it would be remiss of me not to thank the mods and my fellow teammates, especially OUR FUCKING AMAZING ARTIST, who have all gone above and beyond. 
> 
> This entire spectacular Spectacle has been so fun and amazing. Thank you to the mods, all the teams, all the readers, everyone who swings by, and everyone who votes.

Stiles dropped his chin into his hand with a soft sigh, staring dreamily at his computer screen as he listened to the lovely, soft tones of his operative whisper into his ears through his headset.

" _It's just so difficult sometimes_ ," Lydia Martin was saying as she swept daintily up the thirty or so stone steps of the enormous mansion on five inch heels, her short skirt flirting around her thighs.

Stiles could see the gathered throng of people all turning their heads to admire her as she walked past, barely having to do anything but smile to distract the guards posted at various doors. She casually strolled through the building, going deeper into the recesses of it and further away from the party in search of—

"On your right, two o'clock," Stiles breathed, his heart giving a tiny lurch as he watched Lydia take out her two would-be assailants through the live feed. Stiles' competence kink was in full effect tonight.

Well, okay. _Every_ night.

Stiles let out another sigh, squirming in his seat, sporting a half-chub as Lydia used her specially-made wrap as an invisibility cloak, dropping it over the objective — a briefcase filled with top secret information — before calmly and coolly retracing her steps to stroll casually out of the Whittemore Estate, a single click of a pen causing it to explode in stunning fashion behind her.

So technically it was the abandoned gatehouse that exploded to create a diversion and guarantee Lydia's clean escape. But still. It was quite spectacular and really only served to highlight just how incredibly brave and _gorgeous_ Lydia was, the flames not holding a candle to the bright, luminous glory of her red hair.

"Extraction ETA three minutes, Agent."

" _Thank you, Stiles. I don't know what I'd do without you._ "

"Wither away in despair," Stiles quipped, a grin stretching his lips as he leaned forward, propping his chin on his fists as he twisted his spinny chair back and forth. 

This was his favorite part of any op: the moments after it was over, when it was just him and Lydia, trading banter easily while Lydia waited for extraction.

" _Oh, please. I don't wither. And an emotion like despair would only give me lines._ "

Stiles knocked his head against his desk, biting his knuckle until his eyes filled with pained tears. Why did Lydia have to be so _perfect_?! He could banter with her every minute of the day and drown in the happiness of doing so. "Yes, don't do anything to ruin that flawless complexion," he choked out before his own tongue could betray him by asking Lydia to marry him or something equally horrifying.

" _It had better be flawless considering what I pay for my facials—_ "

Without warning, two red dots appeared on Stiles' heat-sensor screen. "Six o'clock!" he half-screamed, his heart in his throat as he watched the screen in horror. The red dots stopped moving, but then…

So did Lydia's, the same moment as her eye-cams went dark.

"Lydia? Agent Martin? Talk to me, Agent!" Stiles' hands gripped his desk, squeezing so hard he heard something give a little pop. 

But over the headset came nothing but static.

Stiles' heart lodged firmly in his throat, filling it until he felt his every breath grow high and thin. He knew not to give into the panic attack he could feel building, but the stern voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Chris Argent, the steely-eyed, ultra-intimidating chief of operations, wasn't doing enough to stop his teeth from making an awful chattering sound.

Wait.

His teeth weren't chattering…

Stiles sat upright, eyes darting around until he spotted his back-up, secure sat-phone where it was nearly vibrating off his desk. Lunging forward, he grabbed it and thumbed the connect button with a shaking finger.

A soft laugh filled his ears and Stiles slumped in his seat, breathing harshly as he blinked away all the worst case scenarios that had instantly flooded his head as soon as Lydia's dot had vanished from his screen.

" _Did you miss me, sweetie?"_

Stiles allowed himself to just revel in the sound of Lydia's voice for a moment, mouth dry as his body was wracked by adrenaline-fueled tremors. And then he pulled himself together. He was a highly-trained CIA analyst, and his field agent was still in harm's way. 

"Oh, you know," he choked out, eyes still scanning for Lydia's tracker. "Just worried about the paperwork, is all. You know how Argent likes us to fill out all forms in triplicate and the ones for losing an agent in the field are at least an inch thick. Plus, it would just _look bad._ " 

_"Well, speaking of looking bad… I'm almost certain I just put a bullet in the brain of David Whittemore."_

Stiles lifted his hand, getting the attention of the bullpen manager and pointing to Chief Argent's office as he calmly said, "Eh, the world's a better place, Agent." Clearing his throat, he shoved the bulky sat-phone into the crook of his neck to free up his hands so his fingers could fly over his keyboard. When Argent appeared in the bullpen, Stiles turned back to his computer and pulled up a note screen, typing the information about Whittemore's death onto it for Director Argent to read while Stiles continued directing the end of the op. 

"Okay, Agent, we're having issues with your tech at the moment—" Stiles heard Lydia hum in agreement over the sat-phone which helped him keep his own voice smooth and professional as he continued, "So I need you to remain in position while I lock onto your signal. Tracking your position… _now._ " Stiles toggled the satellite's camera just the slightest bit until he caught a figure standing only a few feet from where Lydia had been when her dot disappeared.

He watched as the slightly-grainy figure tipped its head back until Stiles was looking at a real-time image of Lydia, who winked and blew him a kiss from over three hundred miles away.

"Stop teasing me. My poor heart can't handle it," he grumbled good-naturedly, just to hear Lydia laugh high and breathy in his ear.

Ugh. This was not helping his inappropriate workplace crush _at all_.

 _"Free your calendar. I'm taking you out for a belated birthday dinner,"_ Lydia said as the extraction helicopter finally appeared, dropping a ladder rope that she smoothly stepped onto, allowing herself to be whisked into the night. And though this wouldn't be the first time they'd shared a meal together, the offer — and the suave extraction move — never failed to make Stiles' stomach flutter. 

"For you? Always." Stiles tried not to let the pathetic truth of that statement ring over comms as he gave Lydia the coordinates for her official debrief.

_"Good. I have a surprise for you."_

~*~

Stiles held his breath when Lydia set a beautiful, _significant_ black velvet box on the table between them. The snowy white linen of the tablecloth seemed to glow in contrast to the box.

Stiles flicked his gaze from the box to Lydia — who was sitting across the table smirking at him expectantly — and then dropped it back to the box. Lifting a shaking hand from his lap, Stiles reached out and grasped the box between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it from the table just to feel the physical weight of it in his hand, grounding him in the moment.

He'd known Lydia appreciated him, liked him even in some small ways, but this? A _ring_ box? 

Stiles glanced up at Lydia again, teeth worrying at his lip even as his heart began to beat double time. 

Lydia's brilliant green eyes gleamed as she smiled at Stiles before reaching forward and covering Stiles' hand with her own, giving it a quick squeeze. "Open it."

Stiles dragged in a shuddering breath and nodded, a part of him mourning the warmth of Lydia's hand over his when she withdrew it. "Yeah," he rasped. "Okay."

The hinges gave a portentous squeak when Stiles lifted the lid of the ring box to see, nestled on a bed of crimson velvet…

He blinked, tilted his head, and blinked again.

Lydia's delighted laughter reached him then, and Stiles lifted his head to see her smiling excitedly. 

"Isn't it fantastic? I thought of you as soon as I saw it and just knew I had to get it for you!"

Smiling weakly in the face of Lydia's enthusiasm, Stiles plucked the _thing_ from the box and held it up, hoping a different angle would make it less awful.

It was… Well. It was _not_ a ring.

He honestly couldn't even figure out what it was for a long minute, too taken aback by how very _ugly_ it was. But when he twisted it in the light, he caught a glint of metal and turned it over, showing him the sloppily hot-glued pin stuck to the back. 

Ah. A lapel pin. _Awesome_. Lydia had gifted him with the ugliest damn lapel pin he'd ever seen before in his life.

Lydia's expectantly raised eyebrows demanded a response, though, so Stiles smiled as convincingly as he could and said, "It's so charming." And then, because he _had_ to know, "A dog with wings reminded you of me?"

"It's an angel pug! With googly eyes!" Lydia said, waggling her fingers in a way that was probably meant to be enlightening before wiping the moisture from them with dainty dabs of her napkin. Then she let out a little sigh. "I would normally _never_ get something so tacky, but, well. I know how much you like dogs, so I thought you'd love it. Imagine if there had been," she had to pause to laugh some more, "a _ring_ in that box." Then she shook her head, rolling her eyes as she invited Stiles to laugh at the joke with her, settling back in her seat as the waitress arrived with their foie gras.

"Yeah," Stiles murmured, giving the pin a little shake to watch the beads in the eyes swirl around crazily. "Imagine."

~*~

Scott fought through the crowd around the bar, his cheeks flushed red as he finally made it back to their table with three beers and two frosty glasses. Plunking them atop the table, he fished in his pocket for his inhaler, taking a large breath of the medicine before collapsing into his chair and nodding his thanks at Stiles, who had taken it upon himself to pour out their first round.

"So that's it, huh?" Scott finally said when he could breathe with only a minimal rasp. He gave the pin sitting in the middle of the table a meaningful stare, wincing sympathetically when Stiles nodded. "What is it? A bulldog?"

"Pug," Stiles said mournfully, poking the googly eyes of the really godawful thing. 

"In a tutu?"

"With wings, yeah," Stiles muttered, bringing his beer to his mouth and taking three big gulps from it. He knew better than to drink too fast in this place because it took _forever_ to get the bartender's attention, but he felt like he deserved a chance to wash his recent memories away.

"Oh no, don't look now," Scott whispered harshly. 

And of course, in the tradition of people who've been told not to look _everywhere_ , Stiles turned to follow Scott's sour gaze and groaned. "Ugh. Raeken." Flicking imaginary hair over his shoulder, Stiles let his voice reach a high falsetto and chirped, "I'm so awesome. I'm sooo amazing. Look at me, everyone. I can make panties drop in a twenty foot radius just by _breathing_. I'm—" Stiles cut off with a grunt when Scott's elbow jabbed him in the stomach.

"Hush, he's coming this way. Ugh, what a douche. Like he's any better than us. Hell, we all went through training at The Farm together! And you consistently scored higher than him in all field tests." Scott took a quick swig of his beer before thumping it back to the table. "I bet he doesn't even remember us."

"Scott! Stiles!" Theo Raeken said then, clapping each of them on the back. "Look at you studs sitting over here making all the ladies drool." Then Theo shook Stiles' shoulder a little, grinning down at him in pure, friendly camaraderie. "And the guys too, if I'm not mistaken, eh? So what have you two been up to?"

Stiles couldn't reply, his teeth too busy grinding together to allow him to part his lips to speak, but thankfully Scott was there to step in and smooth things over.

"Just being everyday amazing analysts," Scott said with a small, awkward smile. 

"Oh." Pity filled Theo's face before he forced a smile. "Well! I don't know what us field agents would do without all the, um, support. And intel! Yeah. You're doing great work, guys! Just, um. Just great." 

The silence that fell then was so awkward even agents standing apart from them were looking over curiously. 

"Well," Stiles started, eyes skating past Theo to the bar, which made Theo jump and clap his hands together.

"Right! Oh, yeah, I need to grab a few drinks for the guys. Well! It was great seeing you both. I'll just—" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bar, and with a quick, perfect-toothed grin, he was gone.

"Yeah, well, good luck!" Scott called out, stifling a small snort. "The service here is slow as… what the—?"

Almost before Theo got to the bar, the bartender was sliding a drink to him with a smile and waving off his crisply folded money. Scott and Stiles watched, jaws dropping, as Theo laughed and leaned over the bar to tuck the money into the bartender's shirt pocket.

"That Donovan," Theo said, walking back past them with not only his drink but a few bottles of beer as well. "Such a great guy. See you later, Stiles! Scott!"

"Yeah," Stiles said, narrowing his eyes on _Donovan_ , who was already back to completely ignoring the existence of everyone else at the bar. "See ya."

~*~

Stiles sat back in his chair, fiddling with his tie as the conversation flowed fast and furious at the table. Something about a football game the previous night.

Meh, Stiles was a baseball man. He'd never understood the appeal of football. Even the asses were padded; it was blatantly false advertising.

The chatter shut off like a switch had been thrown the instant Chief Argent walked into the room, pushing buttons on his console to bring up files that Stiles recognized too well. 

"Agent Martin, welcome back. Based on the intel you retrieved, our analysts—"

Stiles sat up straighter, preening a little. 

"—have put together the following: Jackson Whittemore, David Whittemore's adopted son, has taken possession of the nuclear device that we confirmed his father had. Its location, however, is still unknown to us. We need to locate and secure the device."

The screen showed a blond, model-perfect man trailed by three big, burly men. Bodyguards or minions, was Stiles' guess for the background crew. Argent clicked buttons, going through the scans of the family photos that Lydia had paused over when she'd infiltrated the Whittemore Estate. These showed a younger Jackson, from birth through the present. Stiles pursed his lips as he studied them, noticing the closeness between a very young Jackson and his father that suddenly disappeared. In his early teens, there was a visible, deliberate distance between them, with Jackson's good looks almost ruined by the petulance on his face.

Argent continued, pulling Stiles out of his musing. "We have sketchy intel that suggests that Jackson is shopping for buyers for the device he inherited from his father. Stiles believes that Jackson will be meeting with a broker sometime this evening."

Yeah, that had been a _fun_ discovery. Going through everything in the briefcase Lydia had dropped into his lap, breaking ten different kinds of code, and—

"What the hell is a Stiles?" 

Stiles glanced over, eyebrows winging upward as he saw the completely confused look on field agent Derek Hale's face. And sure, they weren't close; Stiles was an analyst that worked exclusively with Lydia, after all. But still, Hale should have _some_ idea who Stiles was, considering that he sat in on most of these intel meetings. Hell, he'd _run_ some of the meetings before, when Argent was unable to attend.

"Uh, that would be _me_ ," Stiles said, pursing his lips as he waggled his pencil in greeting as sarcastically as he felt he could get away with. Hopefully without getting his throat ripped out.

Hale looked back at him, the confusion crinkling his eyebrows only growing deeper, nearly drawing the two furry caterpillars that had taken up residence on his face together. "Who the hell are _you_?"

Stiles just gaped at him because really? _Really?!_ "We've literally worked together for _five years_. How the hell are you a spy with such a complete and utter lack of situational awareness?"

"That's enough, Stilinski," Argent said, causing Stiles to turn on him with a wounded expression. 

Hell, a wounded _soul_. "Are you even listening to—"

"Stilinski?" Hale asked, lips turning down in thought as he squinted at Stiles. "The one with all the dogs?" His eyes dropped to the pug pin Stiles had attached to his lapel — that he'd desperately tried to hide with a cleverly layered scarf until the broken A/C in the building had convinced him to remove it. "Oh. Huh. I thought you had… different hair? Curlier or something?" Hale waved a hand around his head before shrugging and apparently dismissing Stiles entirely from his mind as he turned back to Chief Argent, an expectant expression on his face.

Stiles squinted at him then slid his gaze to the back of Lydia's head as his hand came up to fiddle with — and hopefully cover up — the pin she'd given him. Why on earth did everyone think Stiles was so into dogs? He hadn't even had any while growing up, due to the weird hours his dad worked and Stiles' own complete inability to feed _himself_ on a healthy schedule.

A fist slamming on the table brought Stiles forcefully back to the present to see Hale leaning forward almost threateningly in his seat, his teeth bared as he damn near growled at Chief Argent. "I should be the one to go after Whittemore. It's my _turn_ , dammit!"

"You've just come off convalescent leave," Argent said coolly before inclining his head. "Martin is still packed up anyway. Martin," Argent said, his attention all on Lydia, "this is a quick in-and-out operation. Our intel suggests that Jackson Whittemore will be in his meeting all evening, so you're to go in, scan and find the nuclear device, paint it for extraction and leave. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Lydia gathered the thin file off the desk in front of her and stood, turning to raise an expectant eyebrow at Stiles. "Are you coming?"

Stiles hugged his tablet to his chest and grabbed his messenger bag, barely flicking a glance at Hale, who was still trying to argue his case with Argent in hushed, angry whispers. Instead, he trailed after Lydia, _quite_ happy to walk behind her and enjoy the view.

~*~

All three screens blipping at once made Stiles' breath catch. When they came back up, there was still a fuzziness that Stiles didn't like. "Hey, Agent, we're having some technical issues. _Again_. After what happened last time, I don't want you to—"

 _"Stiles, calm down. No one's here except the two house guards. I'll take them out, find the device, and be out of here before you can tell McCall the 'broken nose after the coconut incident' story again."_ Lydia turned so that she was looking into a mirror, fixed her hair, pursed her lips, and carried on. 

Once she dispatched the two guards Stiles' heat sensors had picked up, Stiles began breathing easier, but… well, but the screens still looked a little wonky at the edges, and he just… had a bad feeling in his gut. It didn't matter how many times he told himself, how many times _Lydia_ told him that she was a highly successful field agent, Stiles just couldn't shake the feeling.

So it was almost no surprise to hear a haughty male voice — a voice that didn't show a corresponding heat signature — say, _"Well, well. The CIA sent in their prized agent, Lydia Martin, just for me? Though, I suppose it isn't too unreasonable since I_ am _their biggest threat at the moment."_

Lydia spun toward the voice, the image finally clearing up to show Jackson Whittemore in stunning high definition. He was even more _symmetrical_ than he'd been in the footage Stiles had obtained for the CIA's records. His full lips stretched into a smirk, his muscular frame giving the impression that his clothes were happy just to have the chance to wear _him_ , and in his perfectly manicured hands was a 9mm Beretta, aimed straight at Lydia.

 _"Oh, sweetie,"_ Lydia sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. _"If you wanted to be a 'big threat,' you should have probably laid off the steroids."_

Stiles… blinked. What the hell? Was she _goading_ Jackson?

"Lydia, seriously, this is _not_ the time to go all condescending and waspish," Stiles hissed into his headset. "Also, how the hell does he know your name?"

 _"Drop the weapon, Lydia,"_ Jackson said, cocking his head in a way that showed off the perfect bridge of his nose and the square cut of his jaw. 

Stiles watched as the camera panned from that jawline down over the ridges of his chest and abs to the bulge in Jackson's trousers. Which Stiles only knew because Lydia was apparently raking her eyes over his body.

Seriously: What. The. Fuck?

 _"Do you like what you see, Agent Martin?"_ Jackson asked, running his free hand down his flat stomach and over his crotch, smiling teasingly at Lydia. 

Stiles could damn near _picture_ the little smirk Lydia was wearing as she, again, dragged her eyes down his body. _"Why? Does the thought of me enjoying the view turn you on?"_

 _"So much, you have no idea. But then again, when it comes to me? Everything turns me on, to be quite honest, even honey."_ Jackson was strolling forward again, all swinging hips and animal magnetism.

 _"You turn yourself on? Narcissistic, much?"_ Lydia said with an insulting laugh, the camera angle tilting with her head.

The sexy swagger turned to a stiff-legged stance as Jackson's face went dark with fury at her words. _"Listen, you little bitch. I've had enough of you for one night. Now, put down your gun before I cut that sharp tongue out of your mouth."_

"Get your head in the game, Lydia," Stiles half-shouted, drawing the attention of Scott as well as the two other analysts in the bullpen that night, Liam and Hayden. They swung around, Scott signalling to the bullpen supervisor who came to watch over Stiles' shoulder as Stiles' fingers stuttered their way across the keyboard, his heart pounding in his chest. "You need to focus, Agent. Do what he says. Go ahead and set down the gun in your hand, move slowly, place it on the ground and then go for your thigh holster—"

A shot ringing out made Stiles flinch so hard his headset came unplugged, broadcasting the sound to the entire room as the screen showed Lydia's perspective falling backward to the ground, the audio filled with her gurgling, labored breaths which were only silenced by Jackson, who pointed his Beretta directly into Lydia's eye, showing Stiles — showing the entire room — the ominous, bone-chilling sight of the barrel of his gun.

 _"Ah, yes, I can see that you've got a little voice in your ear, beautiful. Well, be happy, little voice, because you've just got your agent killed. And don't bother sending Derek Hale, Theo Raeken, Rick Ford, or Bradley Fine after me. That's right, asshats,"_ Jackson said, smirking meanly. _"I know all your dirty little secrets."_

There was another muffled bang, and the screen went dark, nothing but white noise and Stiles' panicked breathing lingering in the suddenly-silent room.

~*~

For two weeks, Stiles existed in a fog of disbelief, grief, and self-flagellation. He attended Lydia's memorial service, the words said in her honor nothing more than background noise. He went to her house, took care of her dog, Prada, and mowed her lawn. And even knowing it wouldn't matter in the long run — what with the plastic that carefully covered each item — guilt swamped him when he dripped tears onto her dry cleaning when he went to pick it up.

All things he'd done for years, little errands that Lydia had always trusted him with, just things one friend did for another, but this time there was the sting of finality about them. 

At work, things weren't much different. Chief Argent handed back report after report with small, stupid mistakes on them, things like Stiles typoing Jackson Whittemore as Jackass Wanker. In between filling out reports, he spent his time watching the video of that final op over and over, searing it into his brain, castigating himself for everything he'd done wrong, every tiny misstep, until—

"Scott!" Stiles croaked, sitting upright in his chair so fast his back cracked and three empty cans of Red Bull clattered to the ground of the bullpen. "I'm sending you an image. I need you to clean it up and see if you can get anything off it." Fingers twitching in a combination of exhaustion and adrenaline, Stiles froze the screen on the image he'd seen, copied it to his second screen and then shot the image to Scott with a flick of his fingers.

Shoving backward, Stiles let his chair roll all the way to Scott's desk, where he watched, fingers twitching for an entirely different reason as he felt the frustration of watching someone else work. Not that he could have done it any faster himself — there was a reason he'd sent the image to Scott, and it wasn't _just_ because he wanted to make sure what he thought he'd seen wasn't wishful thinking.

After what felt like hours, but was only minutes according to the clocks on the time zone wall, Scott sat back with a satisfied, "Got it!"

~*~

Sitting around the conference room table was… hard. Stiles was barely holding it together as the table filled up but still remained achingly empty. Lydia's presence had always been so larger than life to him, so vibrant, that her absence was keenly felt.

And not just by Stiles, it seemed. Rick Ford was muttering in his vaguely English accent — Stiles had no idea where Ford was from and the man was a little too intense for Stiles to try to ask him; hell, even the analysts that worked with him were intimidating to Stiles — things about revenge and blood feuds with the Ford family. Stiles widened his eyes and looked away, catching gazes with Hale for a second, who was looking at him with something like recrimination in his hazel eyes and lowered brow. 

The knot that had taken up residence in Stiles' throat swelled, and he blinked down at his lap, breathing out shakily as guilt swamped him yet again.

_Be happy, little voice, because you've just got your agent killed._

The words played on a loop in the back of his mind, and Stiles was half out of his seat, needing to go somewhere, anywhere, when the door slammed shut. Chief Argent walked into the room, raising an eyebrow pointedly at Stiles' half-standing position. 

"Sit down, Stilinski," he said, and though his voice was gruff as ever, there was the hint of pity underscoring it. 

Stiles had never dealt well with pity, though, so it made him stiffen his spine and sit down with a huff, anger rushing forward to tamp down the guilt.

"We've had a break in the Whittemore case," Argent said, bringing the wall screen to life. "And it's not good. The number Stilinski was able to retrieve from the footage of Martin's last visit to the Whittemore Estate belongs to…" Argent's eyes cut to Hale before he clicked a button and the picture of a suavely handsome, middle-aged man popped up. 

"Uncle Peter," Hale hissed, his complexion going pale as his hands clenched into fists.

"Peter Hale," Argent confirmed, turning fully to face the screen. "He's a broker with suspected ties to terrorist organizations. We believe Whittemore is using him to find a buyer for the nuclear device. Needless to say, it's of vital importance that we retrieve the device immediately, before the sale can go through. To that end, we've received information that suggests that Peter Hale will be visiting one of his warehouses in Paris this weekend."

"Send me," Hale whispered, his tone so viciously cold that even Stiles flinched from it. "Send me, Argent. He's mine to deal with."

"Absolutely out of the question. You know as well as anyone that I can't send you to take care of him. Regardless of your feelings toward him, he is a member of your family." 

"No, he's not—" Hale started to say, fury making his eyes nearly glow, but Argent interrupted him with a gesture toward all the agents at the table.

"Besides which, there's a bigger issue at hand. As you all know, your identities have been compromised. Which means…" Argent sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Which means we need someone off the books, someone _invisible_ to send in. I'm calling in favors at MI6 and the FBI, but—"

"I'll do it," Stiles heard someone say, and was as surprised as everyone else at the table to find himself standing, the voice apparently his own.

Hale, of course, laughed sourly at that, like a sour...person. "Yeah, okay, coffee boy. Sit down and let the adults talk."

"Hale," Argent snapped, planting his fist on the table.

"You can't seriously be considering this, sir." Hale rounded on Argent, narrowing his eyes. 

"I…" Argent glanced at Stiles, his expression doing _something_ before he relaxed, sinking into his seat. "Not yet, but I'm willing to be persuaded."

"Oh, this is _bullshit_! You're going to get this kid killed, Argent! What you _need_ is an experienced field agent out there. This isn't the time for jokes! When the game's on the line, you don't replace the star quarterback with the _water boy_."

Stiles shot to his feet. "Listen, Ass-Hale. I've had just about enough of your condescending attitude toward me. Technically, I'm an agent too, okay? So you know what that means?" Stiles didn't wait for him to answer, just pointed to every person in the room before returning to himself. "Agent, agent, agent, agent… agent. That's right. I'm just as qualified as you are to be out there. And better yet, I'm _more_ qualified than you. I know what to look for, what to avoid, and I am _damn_ sure not on anyone's radar. I'm a fucking ghost, man, and you're number one on some terrorists' most wanted list."

"Fuck you and your cutesy nicknames, kid. You might have the training, _technically_ ," Hale sneered, fingers crooked in air-quotes, "but you and I both know that you don't have a single ounce of experience. You'll crumble under the pressure and do what you do best: get someone killed."

Pain stabbed through Stiles at those words, robbing him of breath, but he refused to flinch.

"Shut up," Argent said, his voice brooking no argument. "Both of you," he added, his steely gaze flicking between them. Argent looked around the room, eyes lingering on each person seated around the table before they finally landed on Stiles, a struggle apparent in them before they hardened with resolve. "With no better options, Stilinski, you're going—"

"If you're really doing this," Hale interrupted, "then I fucking quit." Slamming his chair backward so hard it hit the wall, Hale shot up and stomped from the room, looking back at the other agents around the table as if waiting for them to follow him. When they didn't, he just growled and slammed the glass door behind him so hard, the glass spider webbed.

"Well. That's never happened before." Argent rolled his eyes, the utterly dry words fading away as he looked Stiles over. "Be straight with me," he said, then paused momentarily like he was waiting for Stiles to make a joke or giggle inappropriately.

And probably, three weeks ago, he would've. But now? With Lydia gone, it was all Stiles could do to hold himself together.

"Can you do this, Stilinski?"

Stiles let out a long, slow breath, letting determination fill him. "Yes, sir. I can."

~*~

"Oh my god," Scott breathed, pausing in the stairwell to take a hit of his inhaler.

"Stop saying it like that," Stiles grumbled, slowing but not stopping. 

"You're gonna die, dude. _Die_. This is so fucking exciting." Scott seemed to realize exactly what he'd said at the same time Stiles did, because he flailed his hands through the air in some kind of demented charades before he muttered, "I mean… you know what I mean. But still, dude. Exciting. But yeah, you're gonna die. What's your spy name? Did they give you a spy name yet?"

Stiles, gripped by a hundred different overwhelming visions of his own death — all of them ending in the huge, wall-sized black hole of a gun barrel — just shuddered, not answering. 

Scott, though, had never needed Stiles' input to keep up his end of a conversation. "That was, like, the first thing I did when I got accepted to the CIA. I looked mine up online. 'Lucky Charm.'"

 _That_ made Stiles pause. "As in, 'they're magically delicious'?"

"No, no. It's the name of your first pet and the name of the street you grew up on. So mine is Lucky, our beagle—"

"Dude, that beagle was so badly named. He got hit by a car like, what? A week after you got him?"

Scott's face went all pinched and sad. "Yeah. Poor guy."

"And you grew up on 1st street," Stiles added, rolling his eyes.

"But 1st isn't a name. 'Onest?' So I used the cross street, near Mrs. Nguyen's house. Charming Lane. But Charming isn't really a good last name because remember my cat, Prince?"

Stiles squinted into the distance, trying to remember which cat that… "Oh man, the one that ran away? The black one with white mittens?"

"Yeah. So I just went with Lucky Charm instead of Prince Charming or Lucky Onest."

"I mean," Stiles said, starting to find the humor in their conversation, "I'd just say your porn name — which, by the way, is what that equation is for — is Lucky First. Not that that's much better, but…"

Scott frowned as he finally stepped off the stairs, catching up with Stiles. "Whatever, dude. You're just jealous that mine is Lucky Charm. What's yours then? Did you even _have_ a pet?"

"Rosa Park. And I'm not using that." 

"Oh, right, I forgot about Rosa the boa." Scott looked around as they entered the Basement, where all the tech and gadgets for field agents were tested and developed… and issued. He let out a long, slow whistle as his eyes caught on a gleaming, low-slung black Camaro. "Dude," he breathed, nudging Stiles with his elbow. "You could totally get that! I bet it has guns built into the bumper and spikes in the wheels and—"

"This isn't a James Bond movie," Stiles said, but he couldn't help the excitement that flipped through his belly.

"And I'm not Q," a bored voice said, making them both turn to see Isaac Lahey, another agent who'd graduated from The Farm with them. 

"Oh, hey, Isaac," Scott said with a happy grin. "Great to see you, dude!"

Isaac's lips twitched at Scott before turning back into a half-sneer when he looked at Stiles. "Agent Stilinski, I have your gear and your papers." He handed a clear plastic bag to Stiles that contained a wig, passport, and other identification.

Stiles ripped into it greedily, anxious to see what identity they'd given him. He flipped through the blank pages of the passport book — seriously, not even a single stamp? — to see…

He looked up, horror flooding through him. "What… what? What is this?"

"Your new name is Randy Spears. You're travelling to Paris to attend an international Taco Bell convention." Isaac waited for Stiles to locate the wallet, a cheap thing with a Velcro closure, and find the frankly awful pictures inside. "You're a devoted fan of Taco Bell, have been since at least high school, when you had your senior pictures taken there." Isaac indicated one of the photos.

Isaac pointed to the other picture, one with a pimply-faced Stiles surrounded by tiny dogs. "You have three Jack Russell terriers — Taco, Burrito, and Chalupa — and one mixed-breed, three-legged dog named Diablo. Like the sauce," Isaac added helpfully in a flat monotone.

"Seriously?" Stiles tore his gaze away from the hideous image of 'him' and his imaginary dogs in the picture. "What the _hell_ do you people have about me and dogs?"

Isaac's gaze flickered to the pug pin on Stiles' shirt — he wore it daily; it was all he had left of Lydia — and then looked back up at Stiles, his nose wrinkling. "We thought this would be right there in your comfort zone." Waving that away, Isaac gestured to the table in front of him, upon which laid a variety of really cool looking tech. "These are… oh no, wait. These are for Mr. Hale. Yours are over here." Isaac stepped sideways until he was standing in front of…

"Sweet Jesus," Scott whispered, and Stiles could only nod along, wanting to cry at what he saw.

"Zit cream," Isaac said, holding up the tube. "It's actually a newly formulated, highly-effective accelerant. A little goes a long way." Putting it into a suitcase packed with clothing, he picked up a packet of wipes. "T-zone cleanser—"

"Why do you all seem to think I have a skin condition?" Stiles muttered, starting to get angry.

"It's all the Taco Bell," Isaac said, his voice flat and dry. "These are infused with chloroform. Just hold one up to your target's nose and… night-night." A spray can was held up next. "Anti-fungal spray—"

Both Stiles and Scott flinched from the really graphic, awful picture of a fungus-encrusted toenail on the front of the can. 

"This is pepper spray."

"Why not," Scott said hesitantly, "just give him pepper spray?"

"Oh." Isaac blinked once, taking a moment to consider that. "Huh. We'll do that in the future. Good suggestion, Agent McCall." Going quickly over the last two items, he said, "Pen with a poison dart on one end and a secondary form of communication on the other. Click the end and you can send a message back to headquarters in Morse code, push on the lever and a poison dart will fly from the tip. You've also got this watch." Isaac handed over the watch, which Stiles took with hesitant fingers.

"This is a calculator watch," he said, all the previous excitement he'd felt completely drained from him, killed by the disappointment of his really horrid new identity. Apparently, the CIA hated him. Where the hell were all the fitted black tuxes and shaken-not-stirred martinis he'd been expecting? 

"If you depress the menu button for more than two seconds, it will emit a high-powered laser beam, capable of cutting through steel. It will also do basic calculations."

Stiles stared at him before sighing and flipping the rubber watchband around his wrist, securing it. "Gee. Thanks."

"Oh! One last thing. Just a bit of tourist-trap kitsch." Isaac added a plastic package to Stiles' bag that read, emblazoned across the front, _"No Homo" Seashells!_ "Throw them to the ground and hold your breath. They'll release a quick-acting knock-out gas."

Stiles blinked at them, looked at Scott, and then sighed, beyond arguing. "Yeah. Thanks."

"All in a day's work. Well. That's it, Agent. You're all ready. And let me just say, I was surprised to hear you were putting your life on the line for your country. It's very, um. _Brave._ Yeah, very brave of you."

Stiles squinted at him, trying to find the approval in Isaac's gaze that went with the words. All he found was a flat stare. "Well, it's just a track and report mission," Stiles finally murmured, grabbing his bags off the table. "I'm not going to be in any danger."

Isaac blinked at him once, his expression deeply unconvinced and a little… gleeful? "Right. Well, you need to get changed and head straight for the airport."

Stiles nodded and turned away, pulling a thick, full — very full, really — wig from the bag. And a yellow… jumpsuit? Opening his mouth to question the costume, Stiles was interrupted by Isaac's final words.

"And don't forget to arrange for someone to watch all your dogs, Agent Stilinski!"

Scott gave a quick wave to Isaac, once more excited and happy for Stiles, even as Stiles just gaped at Isaac. 

"Don't worry, dude," Scott said, bumping shoulders with Stiles again as he tugged Stiles toward the locker rooms. "I'll watch them!"

"Goddammit, Scott. I don't _have_ any fucking dogs!"

~*~

Stiles sat back in the cab, trying desperately not to itch at his scalp under the wig he was wearing. The wig that made him look like a clone of Weird Al Yankovic. Of course, the glasses he'd found under his mustard-yellow jumpsuit in the bag Isaac had handed him back in Langley certainly didn't help the situation.

The lenses were approximately two inches thick and if Stiles glanced any direction but straight forward, the world appeared as though he were looking at it through about a foot of water. But… Stiles sighed, turning so that his views out the window were unobstructed by the glasses.

But he was in _Paris_. He couldn't help the thrill he felt as they passed all the easily recognizable landmarks: the Arc du Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the large, beautiful hotels… which the cab didn't even slow near…

Stiles' forehead wrinkled, and he pressed his nose closer to the glass window as the areas they traveled through contained fewer 'sights' and more 'sightings' — like the sighting of the prostitute giving her john a blow job on the corner, the guy getting robbed at gunpoint a few blocks further down, the … oh geez, Stiles really hoped that was a odd, French dog and not a rat. 

If rats that big existed in France, Stiles wanted nothing more than to go _home_. 

"Um," Stiles blinked, brain working to translate what he wanted to say into french. _"Are we getting close to the hotel?"_

"Oui."

Stiles blinked out the window just in time to see something murky splatter from a second story window onto the pavement below and smiled shakily, turning his head to face forward so that such sights would be wavery and blurry. Of course, it didn't matter much, because just as he turned around, the cabbie put his blinker on and pulled over in front of a hotel whose name was unclear, but ominously spelled out M U R D E R with the few remaining lit letters. 

"Awesome," Stiles muttered, swallowing heavily as he grabbed his bag and paid the cabbie. The door had barely shut behind him before the cabbie was peeling out, speeding away from the section of town he'd dropped Stiles in.

Making his way into the building, Stiles stopped at the front desk to get his key before hurrying along the hall toward his room. Once the door was shut behind him — it took three tries, the last nearly dislocating his shoulder — he turned back to his room and whipped the wig off his head. The instant relief from the itching made tears spring to his eyes, which just made the whole 'watery' situation that much worse. 

Cursing, Stiles yanked the glasses off, rubbing his eyes before digging in his kit for the 'contacts' that all field agents carried. These were the eyes and ears of the operations floor that allowed the analysts to see what the field agents saw. Stiles popped them in easily, then screwed his ear piece in before sighing and looking around the dump that the CIA had booked him into.

"Hey, Scott?" he asked, needing to hear his best friend's voice. He was feeling just a bit… fragile.

 _"Stiles!"_ Scott's voice was, unbelievably, even _more_ excited than it'd been when he'd dropped Stiles off at the airport ten hours earlier. _"Holy shit, dude, what the hell? Where are you?"_

"The Murder Hotel," Stiles said, lips twitching as his humor made a valiant effort to revive itself. 

_"Jeez, man, that's… um. Yeah, sorry, I'm supposed to tell you to look under the cushion on the chair in the corner of the room."_

Stiles looked toward the corner, then recoiled in horror. "Did they say why?"

Scott whimpered. _"No? But I'm sure it's for a good reason. Dude, what the hell_ died _on that chair?"_

Stiles looked at the dark brown stain that spread across the orange velveteen surface. "I don't know. Oh god, this might be the worst thing I've ever said, but please let that brown stuff be dried blood," Stiles prayed, closing his eyes as he quickly flipped the cushion off the chair. Squinting his eyes back open, he looked down to see a lock box. "Fingerprint security, you think?" Stiles asked, receiving a hum of agreement from Scott.

Stiles grabbed the box, not bothering to reset the cushion on the chair, and went to the bed that was at least questionable-stain free. Dropping onto it, he bounced for a few seconds on the super-springy mattress before he came to a stop and put his fingers in the indentations on the side of the box. It clicked open, showing Stiles an empty gun and three magazines, one with a red stripe, one a blue stripe, and one plain. 

"Knockout, explosive, and normal," Stiles muttered, trailing his fingers over the fully-loaded magazines. Sliding the magazine loaded with normal bullets into the gun, Stiles set the safety and then brought it and his bag into the bathroom so he could shower off the transatlantic flight. 

"Hey, Scott. I'm going offline for a shower."

 _"Okay, dude. I've got your hotel up on sat feed and… yeah. Murder Hotel is right. Good luck in there."_ Worry hung thick in Scott's voice, making anxiety curl through Stiles again.

"Yeah, thanks. Talk to you later."

Popping out the contacts and removing the earpiece was the work of a matter of seconds. Getting hot water? Apparently impossible. Stiles gritted his teeth as he stepped beneath the dribble that came from the shower head, not noticing until he was fully inside it that the tub had a huge crack down the middle of it. He couldn't help but feel grateful that it wasn't the room _above_ him that had the broken bathtub.

Soaping up quickly and shutting off the water, Stiles swiped the sandpapery towel over his wet skin then pulled a pair of luridly purple briefs from the bag Lahey had given him and slipped them on. Shaking his head at his foggy image in the mirror, Stiles flung his towel over the single, wobbly bar behind the door, picked up his gun, and headed back into his room for what he hoped to be a good night's sleep.

Instead, he got the shock of his life when he saw a figure hulking in the corner of the room. The corner with the murder chair.

Letting out a bitten-off scream, Stiles lifted the gun in his hand and waited for a clear shot. What he got instead was the brightness of a bare bulb as the room's lone light was clicked on.

"Hale?! Oh my god, you _idiot_. I could have _killed_ you!" Stiles whisper-shouted, mindful of the ears that may be listening in from adjoining rooms. "What the hell is wrong with you? What are you _doing_ here?"

Hale snorted and rolled his eyes. "Killed me? Me? Please. As if you could. _I_ am an experienced field agent, unlike _you._ And I'm here to stop you from getting yourself killed. Go home, Stilinski. Go back to your computers and your… place where you work on the computers. Go find another agent to talk to."

"Asshole!" Stiles stomped across the room, setting his gun on the rickety nightstand and then taking three large steps away from it so that he couldn't be tempted to use it. "I can't believe you came all the way here to pull this shit. Again! I am not fucking stupid, Hale. I know what I'm doing. Hell, I probably know better than you do with my background as an analyst."

"An analyst," Hale scoffed, standing up and getting right in Stiles' face. "Do you know what it's like to have your entire family targeted and burned to death, Stilinski? Do you know what it's like to have your own uncle kill your sister? To have _your own uncle_ gut you with a knife?"

Stiles blinked, mouth dropping open. "Your whole family? Oh my god, dude, you… wait. If your whole family died, how did your uncle kill your sister? How did your uncle… that doesn't make sense."

Hale slashed a hand through the air, angrily cutting Stiles' words off as he stepped even closer, so close that their chests were brushing with every breath. "You don't know what it's like to fall two stories, break your back, and then get up and walk out of the building. You don't know what it's like to have a pole _shoved_ through your chest. You _don't know_ what it means to be a field agent, Stilinski. You don't know what it's like to have to kill your own girlfriend because the enemy has given her a slow-acting poison… just to put her out of her misery."

Stiles winced, then blanched, then started to feel a little numb to all the many horrors that were, apparently, common-place in Derek Hale's life. "You euthanized your girlfriend? Hey, remind me not to date you."

"Do you think this is a _joke_ , Stilinski?"

Fury rising again, Stiles moved forward, bumping their chests together harder, hoping to make Hale retreat. Not that he did, of course, the bastard. "No. I know this isn't a joke, Hale. This is life and death, but apparently you don't care. If you did, you'd listen to Argent and fucking go home yourself. Did you even think about all the cameras in this city that might have caught you? You didn't even put on a fucking _disguise_ , you dumb fuck."

Hale bared his teeth, his face so close now that Stiles could feel every breath he took blowing across his mouth, drying out his lips. "I'm trying to save your life, you little idiot. Go home. Go home before you get yourself killed." Hale's words faded to a whisper on the end, a hint of horror throwing shadows into his multi-colored eyes for a moment before he stepped away and opened the door — easily, of course, because even the damn door appeared to be on his side.

"Or worse," Hale said, turning in the doorway to give one last parting shot. "Compromise the mission."

Face going hot with anger, Stiles chased after Hale as he stepped into the hallway and walked away. "Fuck you," he yelled, paying no mind to the little old lady that was leaving her room three doors down. Like awkward naked conversations were the worst this hotel and its patrons had ever seen. "Fuck you _and_ your priorities, Hale! If anyone's going to compromise the mission, it'll be _you_."

Stiles stood there, nearly vibrating out of his skin with all the angry emotion washing through him, until the old lady sighed dreamily.

"Ahh, young love."

Stiles whipped his head around, staring at her in horror. "Love? That's not… I do _not_ love that… that…" He was speechless. Couldn't find a word in his mind horrible enough to truly capture all the hate he felt for Hale.

"Only love would drive people to have fights in underwear," the woman said with a lascivious wink, letting her rheumy eyes trail down Stiles' body.

Stiles' eyes went round as he meeped and ducked back into his room, slamming the door — three times, ugh — and locking it tight.

~*~

The next morning, Stiles woke determined to put Hale from his mind. He got up, carefully applied his disguise — another mustard yellow jumpsuit, this one complete with an eggplant mock-turtleneck to compliment his enormously curly wig — and went outside the hotel to follow the GPS coordinates Scott had sent him to the location of Peter Hale's warehouse.

Walking along, Stiles smiled and waved at all the shopkeepers he passed who were sweeping off the walks in front of their businesses. A few even waved back, though most just stared at him suspiciously. The suspicion did nothing to ruin Stiles' mood, though, determined as he was to enjoy this experience to its fullest.

What did ruin his mood, though, was turning the corner onto the street where Peter Hale's warehouse was supposed to be and finding nothing but smoldering ruins.

 _My entire family burned to death._

Hale's voice from the previous night rang in his head as Stiles stared in horror at the building. Had… had Peter perished in this fire? Did Hale… know? Had he been the one to set it in a bid to bring down his uncle?

Turning around and searching frantically, Stiles waved down a shopkeeper across the street and in halting French, asked for details of the fire. The shopkeeper told him that the blaze had started in the middle of the night, then mentioned that the arsonist had been caught straight away by local police.

Giving the man effusive thanks, Stiles backed away, taking off his glasses so that Scott, back at Langley, could get as many shots of it as he might need. Then he hailed a cab and took off for the local police station, hoping against hope that he'd be able to get information on the person responsible.

~*~

Stiles walked out of the police station with a smile on his face and a skip in his step. Not only was the man in custody _not_ Derek Hale, but the police had managed to retrieve a camera from the suspect as evidence. It had only been the matter of a few moments 'in the restroom' for Stiles to upload the contents of the camera's SD card to Scott for analysis. So he was more than pleased with his progress on the case and in search of pastries and coffee, which he found just a stone's throw from the police station.

Sliding into a booth, he surveyed the menu with a smile, patting his stomach when it growled menacingly at him. Then he frowned and looked down at his hand on his stomach, feeling a bit weird because for all that he'd _heard_ his stomach growl, he hadn't _felt_ it do so.

Sensing another person's presence, he looked up, hoping for his waitress but finding Hale instead. 

"Jesus Christ," Stiles muttered, slapping his menu down onto the table. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want to know when you're going to stop playing at being a hero and go home," Hale said, face once more pale and pinched, full lips flattened out as he pressed them together.

Stiles dragged a weary hand down his face. "I'm not going home. I have too fucking much to do here, especially since _you_ tipped off _your uncle_ to CIA presence in Paris last night."

"I did no such—" Hale started, spots of color darkening his cheeks above his thick stubble.

"Do you think it's any coincidence that the minute you set foot in this town, he burned his warehouse to the ground?" Stiles hissed, looking around to make sure no one was watching. "Now, you need to fucking _get away from me_ before you blow _my_ cover! Although… no, wait. Fuck it. Blow my cover. Please." Stiles sat back in the booth, fingers flexing against his thighs as he scratched at them in an attempt to appease the prickles of itchiness along his scalp.

It didn't work.

" _I_ didn't tip him off. You did, with your inexperienced bumbling around this town." Hale's words were certain enough, but the look in his eyes? Not so much.

Stiles could see the doubt in them, the troubled expression that pulled at his eyebrows. Softening, Stiles pressed his hands flat to the table and said, "Look, I want to take down Whittemore just as much as you do. We both cared about Lydia, but—"

Hale sat back, blinking in shock at Stiles before sneering and looking away. Like it literally bowled him over that someone would assume he had something like human emotions.

"Okay, fine. _I_ cared about her—"

"That softness will do nothing but get you killed." Hale allowed his stale warning to hang in the air behind him as he slid out of the booth and left the little restaurant, forcing Stiles to eat the enormous stack of pancakes he'd apparently ordered.

And pay for them, of course. 

Joke was on Hale, though, because the pancakes were _delicious_. They tasted like funnel cake.

~*~

"Scott, give me the good news, bro." Stiles bounced down onto his bed, fingers scritching at his scalp as he rolled around in ecstasy.

_"Yeah, dude, check your phone."_

Stiles leaned up onto one elbow, nudging his gun out of the way as he grabbed for his phone and thumbed it open with his fingerprint. Scrolling through the app notifications, he came across an encrypted message from Scott and opened it. It was a video, taken by the arsonist, of Peter Hale and his goons talking about meeting with Jackson Whittemore.

"Yes!" Stiles crowed. "We got him."

 _"International high five."_

Stiles held his hand up in the air obediently, miming hitting it against Scott's. 

_"Damn, dude, that might be a record for completing a mission. Now we just need to find out who Roscoe is,"_ Scott said, referencing a comment made in the video.

Stiles hummed and nodded, scrolling through the video frame by frame in an attempt to seal the details into his mind. Then… something about the name struck him. "Peter said to 'get Roscoe and go to Rome' right?"

_"Yeah, why? You know who Roscoe is?"_

Stiles shook his head, fingers drumming against his thigh as he thought. "Oh! I know. Hey, pull up the family pictures from the Whittemore Estate. Look through them for a silver Porsche…"

 _"Oh shit,"_ Scott gasped. _"The license plate! It's the damn car. He calls his car Roscoe!"_

"I mean," Stiles said, then went quiet as he worried at his bottom lip with his teeth. "It could be someone or something else. Just because Whittemore _also_ called his car Roscoe doesn't mean Peter Hale doesn't know a completely different Roscoe."

_"Nah, dude, this is it. You did it. I mean, think about it. You can’t name everything Roscoe."_

There was a clattering over the comms, making Stiles wince and wriggle his finger in his ear.

 _"This is Chief Argent, Stiles,"_ came not-Scott's voice, causing Stiles to sit up straight, almost like he was at attention. _"It's time for you to come home. Good work, agent."_

"Wait," Stiles protested. "Sir, we know they're going to Rome. I can follow them and—"

_"No, Stilinski. Your mission is complete. Come home."_

Those words, too frequently said to him in the last twenty four hours by Hale, just made Stiles grit his teeth and dig in his heels. Metaphorically, of course, because he really didn't want to dig any part of his body into the olive green carpet beneath his feet. "Sir, listen to me. My cover is intact. Send me to Rome. I can track and report from there as easily as I did here."

There came the sound of a deep breath over the comms before Stiles heard a soft curse and then, _"Fine, Stilinski. Lift up the carpet in the corner of the room. Your new identity is there. Good luck, Agent. Go to the American Airlines counter at Charles De Gaulle. Your ticket will be waiting for you."_

Stiles shut his eyes just long enough for everyone back in the bullpen not to see him fist pump like an overexcited toddler.

~*~

Stiles muttered to Scott through the comms as he waited for his ride, eyes scanning the view excitedly.

It was a beautiful day in Rome, the sky so blue it dazzled his eyes. Stiles honestly hoped he got some free time here to view the sights, because he hated that he'd had to leave Paris so abruptly without seeing anything but the seediest parts of it. But that was for another day. 

_"So, John Steele,"_ Scott teased. _"You really sound like a porn star now. Okay, quick before your ride gets there. You're a software engineer on vacation in Rome. Sorry I couldn't do anything about the outfit—"_

Stiles glanced down at himself with a grimace. While the new wig that went with his outfit was less itchy than the bouf-y one had been, the new clothes left a lot to be desired. His shirt was so tight he could see his own nipples through it and was emblazoned with the image of a pug. It was also luridly pink, which was probably just to match the tiny lavender spandex bike shorts he was wearing. "I just don't know how they expect me to blend in in this. Hell, even my junk feels exposed."

_"Yeah, sorry, dude. But I managed to pull some strings and got you a better hotel."_

"No more Murder Hotel?" Stiles asked, breathing out a sigh of relief.

_"I got your back, bro. And I gotta say, I'm really digging the buzzcut look on you."_

"Dude," Stiles muttered, shaking his head as he glanced into the nearest reflective surface. "I look sixteen." 

The screech of tires made him look up to see a little red convertible wedging itself between two larger cars at the curb, a woman with thick blonde curls hopping up to crane her head around as her eyes scanned the people waiting. She overlooked him twice before her head swivelled back to him and her lips — painted the same shade as her car — curved up into a brightly amused grin. Pushing her large sunglasses up onto the top of her head, she let out a low, throaty laugh and said, her accent thick, "You must be John Steele. Sorry I didn't recognize you right away. I thought you would be broodier. Less, erm..." She waved a hand to indicate his entire everything, eyebrows waggling over the hemline of his shorts.

Stiles grimaced, but nodded. "Scott, is this—"

_"Yeah, that's your ride. Agent Erica Reyes, comes highly recommended and… oh."_

Stiles, already lifting his bag into the compartment behind the front seat, paused at that sound from Scott. "Oh?"

_"Um, nothing. It's nothing!"_

"Scott."

 _"She's a highly decorated agent,"_ Scott rushed to say as Stiles settled into the passenger seat warily. _"It's just that…"_

"Hey, _cucciolo_ ," Erica purred as soon as he got settled, her right hand coming down onto his thigh. _High_ on his thigh. So high her pinky finger was practically caressing his balls where they were bulging out of the thin material of his shorts. "I really like what this outfit does for your body. Rwarrr." She licked her lips suggestively, squeezing her hand on his thigh as she hit the gas, peeling out and racing off down the street.

"Scott!" Stiles half-screamed, grabbing onto the door for dear life.

_"She's got a few complaints here and there. Traffic violations and, uh, sexual harassment."_

Stiles closed his eyes, held on tight with one hand and smacked at Erica's wandering fingers with the other. "This hotel better be really fucking special," he muttered through gritted teeth.

 _"Eep."_ Stiles could actually hear Scott using his inhaler before he came back on the line. _"Wow, Agent Reyes is making great time! You should be pulling up to your hotel in just a few minutes."_

"Sc-c-o-o-o-tt," Stiles whined as Erica turned and drove down a set of centuries-old stairs to another street. "I'm going to kill you when I see you again!"

"Aww, _tesoro_ , it's gonna be okay," Erica raised her hand high enough to scrub it over his buzzcut wig, letting Stiles take advantage of her lack of groping to pull his messenger bag into his lap.

Erica just threw her head back and laughed, long and hard. Really, really long, actually. So long that Stiles braced himself against every flat surface, screaming as she nearly rear ended a horse-drawn carriage before swooping around it, still not even looking at the narrow road.

"All right, _caro_ , we're here," Erica said, slamming on the brakes so hard Stiles was flung against his seatbelt in ways that were sure to leave odd bruises.

With shaking fingers, he undid the seatbelt and scrabbled at the door handle, popping it open and just rolling out onto the ground on hands and knees. He didn't feel at all bad for the way he hugged the ground, even as his suitcase sailed over his head, landing on the ground just inches from his nose. 

Staggering back to his feet, Stiles grabbed his suitcase in one hand and turned back to Erica expectantly. She pushed her sunglasses up again, her dark brown eyes dragging over him in a way that made him feel more than naked. He felt nearly _violated_. 

"I take tips," she said with a wink. "And the rest of the shaft too, but just the tip can have its appeal."

Stiles gritted his teeth, trying to ignore her and all her innuendo. Normally, he'd probably enjoy flirting with someone so brazen — he had the feeling she could banter like no one's business — but he had a mission to complete and Lydia to avenge. "Do you have anything for me?"

Erica raised one shapely leg, planting her foot on the dashboard in a way that should be against the laws of physics, both because of the tightness of her skirt and the cramped confines of the car. "I have the bonfire of love for you, _bambino._ "

Stiles looked left and right before leaning forward and saying in a hushed whisper, "A gun! Do you have a gun for me?"

Laughing, Erica lowered her foot and shook her head with an insouciant shrug. "No, I was told that you wouldn't need one. Track and report only, _bello._ " Erica made kissy noises at him before throwing the car in gear and driving off with a squeal of tires, leaving Stiles in front of…

"Holy shit, the Four Seasons. Yeah, good job, Scotty boy!" Stiles stood back to take it all in, the clean, bright streets around him, the lack of prostitutes and murderers, the doorman and the wide, welcoming entrance, the expensive cars pulling up to the curb around him, richly dressed people exiting and—

"Scott," Stiles hissed, staring as hard as he could at the couple exiting the Porsche at the end of the block. 

It was Peter Hale and a gorgeous, curvaceous woman with flowing dark hair, walking up to a building that proclaimed itself a casino in understated, classic script.

 _"Oh my god,"_ Scott whispered back, like they'd be able to hear him from Virginia. _"And they're even driving Roscoe!_ "

Stiles nodded, his eyes roving over the car to the license plate, where R O S C O E was emblazoned across it. "I can't believe how fucking lucky I just got. I need to follow them."

 _"Stiles,"_ Scott murmured, his voice sounding hesitant. _"Look at that place. There's no way they're letting you in dressed like that."_

Pursing his lips, Stiles nodded. "Yep. Pretty sure it's the time in the movie of my life for my makeover montage. The Four Seasons has a salon, right?"

_"Yeah but there's no way you'll get finance to sign off on that. Stiles!"_

"Track and report." Stiles walked toward the fancy tailor between the casino and the hotel, determination filling him. "If I can't track them, I can't report. I'm going in, Scott. Talk to you later." And then Stiles pulled the earpiece out and opened the door to the tailor's shop, the image etched into the door of crossing swords steeling his resolve.

~*~

Stiles approached the casino like he knew he belonged there. That, Lydia had always said, was half the battle to getting into places without an invite. Just treat the door you want to get through like your own front door. Expect to be welcome.

Of course, Stiles made it halfway there before his own built-in awkwardness had him shooting finger guns at the security guards posted along the carpeted entrance. Thankfully, though, they were stunned enough by his odd behavior that he was able to get in the door without incident. 

And then there was the hostess to contend with. A cute brunette in an evening gown with a leather-bound book in her hands smiled at him, then let her gaze wander over the — really nice if off the rack — suit he'd picked up at the tailor's shop, her smile fading into a slightly sneery look. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, her English flawlessly unaccented, "but I'll need your invitation."

"John Steele," Stiles said, lifting his nose at her like he'd seen Bradley Fine do once. "I'm expected." He immediately moved to walk around her, not put off a bit when she stepped into his path.

"My apologies; I don't see your name on the list. You'll have to come back another night." She raised her hand to call security over when the last voice Stiles _ever_ wanted to hear curled around them.

"Sorry, Ingrid, he's with me. Hello, love," Derek Hale said, sliding his arm around Stiles from behind, his hand splaying across Stiles' stomach and pulling him back into the hard planes of Hale's chest. "Took you long enough."

Stiles, stiff with both shock and horror at the flirtatious tone Hale was using, turned his head just enough to look into Hale's eyes as he wracked his brain for a response. "Yes, well, I had to find something suitable to wear."

"Mmm. Well, it'll do in a pinch. Though no matter what you wear, you always look delicious," Hale murmured, dropping a fleeting kiss to his neck that made shivers run down Stiles' spine.

Of revulsion. Shivers of revulsion. 

Ingrid tittered in the background and sighed so dreamily that Stiles wanted to turn around and assure her that she shouldn't be having those sorts of reactions to assholes like Hale. But he caught himself before he could and just set his jaw, letting Hale lead him further into the building. The hand Hale had wrapped around him slid from his stomach to the small of his back, leaving his stomach feeling… too cold.

Ignoring that sensation, Stiles hissed, "Seriously? Tipping _your uncle_ off to your presence in Paris wasn't enough for you? Now you're here too? Are you actively trying to sabotage this mission, Hale?"

"Smile, darling," Hale said, which was a bit hypocritical of him considering the grimace that flickered across his own face before he smoothed it out into a happy expression. "The world is watching. Someone," he added in a low voice, leaning in close enough that his breath was fanning over Stiles' ear and the side of his neck, "might be falling in love with you."

"Fuck you, asshole," Stiles cooed, pulling back to flutter his lashes at Hale.

"Maybe later." Hale turned and pulled Stiles close just as Stiles realized that the people around them weren't just lingering in the room, but actually waiting for music to start.

What the hell? What kind of a casino had a ballroom? 

Stumbling a bit as Hale swept him up into a slow waltz, Stiles looked up at him and said, "I need to get to the other side of the room and away from you as soon as possible. I can't afford to have your uncle see me with you."

"I've got this covered, Stilinski," Hale said right back, the hungry look on his face and the dark heat in his eyes making it look like he was whispering sweet nothings to Stiles. "You need to go home before you get in too deep. I know you think you can do this, but you also know I'm right. You don't have the experience to pull off a mission of this importance. I… I don't want to see another agent get hurt. Not because of my uncle." He shifted his gaze then, staring at Stiles' mouth rather than into his eyes, like he couldn't bear to have Stiles realize that there was a human being inside his tough exterior.

"Hey. I… appreciate your concern. But right now, you're the one who's putting me in danger. Your uncle knows you. Anyone in your sphere is going to have a target placed on them. If you want me to be safe, you need to let me go. You need to stop _following_ me, and honestly? _You_ need to go home. Right now you're rogue, and while I'm sure Chief Argent is being lenient due to the circumstances, his good favor isn't going to last forever. Get your badge back, get a better disguise than _nothing at all_ , and find a different corner of the world to lurk in."

Hale clenched and unclenched his jaw as they twirled around the room, his body moving fluidly as he led Stiles with a grace that was astonishing from a man who looked like him. After a long, quiet moment, Stiles even began to relax into the motion, his eyes sliding half-closed as he inhaled the rich, heady scent of Hale's cologne and enjoyed the feeling of safety that came from being wrapped up in those strong arms and—

Stiles jerked, ripping his way out of Hale's embrace as soon as they neared the edge of the dance floor. He shook his head, _hard_ , getting the confusing thoughts and feelings he'd been experiencing out of it in the most expedient way possible. "Go home, Hale," he mouthed, narrowing his eyes at the man before he turned on his heel and walked away, looking for an entirely different Hale altogether.

Searching through the entire casino, Stiles found nothing. No hint of Peter Hale or the woman who'd been on his arm earlier that day. His gut clenched with anxiety as he found himself wondering if he'd spent too long getting ready. If he'd wasted too much time finding this suit and getting his actual hair styled into a suitable look.

Stopping at the bar, he leaned against the railing as he let his gaze wander over the people he could see. When the bartender came for his order, Stiles just smiled weakly and asked for a glass of water with a twist of lime. 

As he was bringing the drink to his mouth, Stiles caught sight of a waiter with a loaded tray of drinks walking slowly across the bar toward the array of tables and lounging couches that were spread out in the comfortable room, his tray wobbling a little. The couches looked comfortable, so Stiles instinctively stepped toward them, following the waiter. Which put him right in the splash zone when the tray wobbled too far, dumping a glass of some clear drink onto the carpet and over his shoe.

His new, _leather_ shoe, which immediately began bubbling up, hissing and spitting as a huge hole opened in the toe, prompting Stiles to kick it off hurriedly. "What the…? Is that _acid_?"

A man just to the right of where Stiles was standing got to his feet, his hand clasping Stiles by the upper arm as he said, "I believe, sir, that the drink was meant for… me." A snap of the man's fingers had four menacing-looking men shoot to their feet, grabbing the waiter and dragging him out of the bar.

Slightly shaken, Stiles looked up to see the man who'd stopped him and found himself looking right into Jackson Whittemore's face. Anger and hatred rushed through Stiles in an instant, but he tamped that knee-jerk reaction down, internally screaming at himself about the necessity of finding the nuclear device before getting his own vengeance.

Instead, he drew in a settling breath and cocked his head to the side, affecting an innocent demeanor. "You? You really shouldn't drink anything that has the ability to eat through leather. After all, it's basically just skin. Thick skin, sure, but—"

"Please stop talking," Jackson sighed, interrupting Stiles. "And obviously, it wasn't the drink I ordered the waiter was delivering to me in that glass but a poison meant to incapacitate or kill me."

"Why are you so sure it was meant for you?" Stiles asked, logically he thought, until Jackson gestured around them at the suddenly-empty area.

"Who else could it have been meant for?"

"Oh," Stiles said, blinking. He'd been sure there had been more people in this corner earlier, but maybe it had just been the bodyguards Jackson travelled everywhere with that had filled the space with their sheer _width_. "That. Um. Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

"Ah, sweet, virginal boy," Jackson said, patting Stiles on the head. 

On. The. Head. 

"What?" Stiles sputtered. "Virginal?"

Jackson shrugged. "It's your hands. You can always tell with hands. And your hands look so virginal."

If Stiles didn't know Hale, he'd think Jackson was the most condescending asshole he'd ever met. Of course, he _did_ know Hale, which… well, Hale had never resorted to patting Stiles on the head. And if Stiles remembered Jackson's file correctly — which he did, thank you very much — Jackson was three months younger than he was. _Sweet boy_ , indeed.

"But you see, boy, when you're as important an individual as I am," Jackson continued, oblivious to Stiles' outrage, "many, many people want to see you dead."

Stiles let his eyes go big and round, blinking a little to sell it. "You're important? But… I've never heard of you before."

"Of course you haven't. Why would you? You're a … what? College student?"

Stiles grit his teeth, letting out a slow breath through his nose before he smiled and shook his head. "Software engineer, actually, in Rome on vacation."

Jackson wrinkled his nose at Stiles. "Why? Rome is a dump."

Mouth dropping open at that — Rome was _amazing_ , from the little Stiles had seen of it; he couldn't _wait_ to explore it further — Stiles searched for something to say, but thankfully found it unnecessary as Jackson's goons chose that moment to come back. 

"Well?" Jackson asked, his tone a furious whine. 

"He was definitely gunning for you, sir," one of the goon's said, his voice a lot higher than Stiles expected, making him let out a badly-timed giggle.

Which, oh shit, made Jackson and his goons turn their attention on him. 

"You find that funny, Mr…?"

"Steele," Stiles said. "John Steele." Scott would be so proud of him for delivering his spy name in the tradition of a bad Bond film. He definitely should have ordered a martini from the bar. "And, erm, no. It's not funny that someone tried to kill you."

Jackson lifted one eyebrow at him. "Then share the joke."

"I… uh." Stiles' eyes shot to the goon before coming back to Jackson, heat rising into his cheeks as he fought to come up with a reason for laughing that wouldn't get him killed. Unable to think of _anything_ but that neckless goon's high pitched voice, Stiles swallowed roughly and whispered, "I just wasn't expecting a man that large to have such a high voice. I'm so sorry. It was really inappropriate of me, and I swear I'm not that kind of—"

"Oh." Jackson tilted his head at Stiles, then looked at his goon. "Say something, Johnson."

"What would you like me to say, sir?" the goon, Johnson, asked, his voice just as improbably high as it had been earlier.

Jackson cracked a snide laugh. "You're right, Steele. It does sound funny." Turning back to Stiles, he inclined his head. "Since you saved me from having that drink delivered to me, I'd like to invite you to dinner with me."

Stiles opened his mouth to decline the invitation — 'track and report _only_ , Stilinski' — but was stopped when Jackson turned to Johnson the Goon and said, "Oh, and it was Frederick's job to keep his eye on all the servers tonight."

Stiles watched as one of the unnamed goons went white and began to stutter just before another one hauled him toward the men's room.

"Now," Jackson said with a cold smile. "Come with me. I want to know all about you."

"Uh." Stiles stared after the two goons, quaking a little inside. "Well, like I said, I'm a software engineer, here on vacation and—"

"Wow, no. Stop talking now. Sorry, but I just realized that I really don't care at all about your sad life, Jeffrey. Jimmy? John!" Jackson grimaced, then shuddered. "And with my luck, you'll want to tell me all about your fat girlfriend and her seven cats. No thank you."

Stiles opened his mouth, willing his brain to give him a proper snappy come-back to that, but unable to do anything but gape in astonishment at Jackson's self-absorbed douchery.

Ugh, he was even _worse_ than Hale. 

Just then, like Stiles' thoughts had conjured him, Stiles saw Hale out of the corner of his eye, laughing loudly while he threw the dice at a craps table just outside the bar area.

Unfortunately, Stiles wasn't the only one to notice him, because Jackson stiffened at his side, snapped his fingers, and indicated Hale with a jerk of his chin. Johnson shot to attention and took off after Hale, the fourth goon following in his wake just as the goon who'd taken Frederick to the restrooms returned, unscrewing a silencer from the end of a handgun. 

Stiles' hands curled into fists at his sides as he watched Johnson grab Hale by the back of the neck, slamming him onto the table as he wrenched his wrist up behind his back, whispering something in his ear. 

"Hey," Stiles faintly heard Hale say, his voice muffled by the distance between them. "I'm just here to make some money, man. Lemme go!"

But when Johnson looked back at Jackson for directions, Jackson just smiled coldly and dragged the back of his thumb across his throat in a too-familiar gesture. 

Stiles' blood turned to ice in his veins as he thought fast. Reaching into his pocket, he felt around until he got his special pen in hand and began rattling off a quick series of letters in Morse code. 

T U R N O F F T H E L I G H T S

A bead of nervous sweat dripped down his temple as he waited, eyes scanning the room, but then… the power blipped, throwing the entire building into darkness. Screams broke out from the casino's patrons, but Stiles could make out through the gloom the shadowy figure of Hale breaking away from the two goons trying to hold him captive.

He heard Jackson start to say something and, because he'd probably never get an opportunity like this again, hooked his foot in front of Jackson's and pushed him, noting with satisfaction as the lights blinked back on that Jackson hadn't quite got his hands under him in time not to smash his nose into the floor.

"Oh my gosh," Stiles exclaimed, rushing forward to help Jackson up, letting his eyes scan the room in an attempt to catch sight of Hale. "What on earth happened?"

"Fucking _Rome_ ," Jackson growled, taking one of his goon's proffered handkerchiefs to wipe a drop of blood from under his slightly-swollen nose. "I hate this place. Come on, Steele. We're getting dinner in Budapest."

"Uh." Stiles could only allow himself to be dragged from the casino and down the front walkway to Roscoe, sliding into the seat beside Jackson with a little whimper. "Budapest? But… I don't—"

"I have business there tomorrow. Lucky you, you get to have dinner with _me_ tonight and then take my jet wherever you want. Trust me, there are a thousand better cities to vacation in than Rome."

Stiles shrank back into his seat as Jackson sped off into the night, only one thought on his mind: Argent was going to kill him. Or worse, _fire_ him.

~*~

Stiles peered around the interior of the plushly outfitted jet, trying not to let his petulance at being denied a single night in the comfort of a hotel like the freaking Four Seasons show on his face. At least Jackson had allowed him to pick up his suitcase and messenger bag — not that he really wanted to wear any of the clothing he had in the suitcase, but he certainly didn't want to leave all his gadgets behind. Especially since he hadn't been given a gun for this particular mission.

"Sir," a man said, standing at Stiles' elbow. 

Stiles quickly clicked his seatbelt together, then looked up when the man continued to linger, only to find that the man was offering him some sort of… bread roll?

"Oh, um. Thank you?"

Surprise flickered across the man's face when Stiles said that, but he inclined his head anyway and dropped the roll right into Stiles' outstretched hand Only it wasn't a roll, but a very hot hand towel, which made Stiles hiss and juggle the cloth from hand to hand until it cooled enough that it wouldn't scorch his fingers.

When he finally finished wiping off his hands with the towel, Stiles looked up to find Jackson peering at him through narrowed eyes. 

"You know," Stiles said, biting his lip as he looked around. "You really didn't have to do this. I don't—"

"You remind me of someone," Jackson mused, cutting through Stiles' words and sending fear spiking through him.

Had Jackson learned his real identity?

"Oh?" Stiles' voice was a little weak, but not nearly as shaky as the hands he quickly linked together in his lap.

"Yes. My father. He was a larger-than-life man, of course, but also… really fucking annoying, you know? Always wanted to talk about stupid shit. I get that vibe from you too. Just blah blah blah, all the time." Jackson blinked and looked away, his stare pensive as he trained his eyes somewhere out the window. "You almost make me miss him."

"Oh, um. Well, that's… nice, I suppose. That I remind you of him, I mean."

"No," Jackson said, smiling a little. "It's not." He nodded at someone behind Stiles and Stiles turned to see the hand-towel waiter standing there with a tray upon which rested two glasses of whisky.

"Uh, sorry, not really a—"

"Take the drink, Steele. Paul isn't paid to stand around with his thumb up his ass."

The waiter blinked, shuttering his gaze, but not before Stiles caught the way his eyes seethed with anger. He winced, feeling bad for anyone that had to put up with Jackson for any length of time, and reached out, taking the whisky off the tray.

"Thank you," Stiles said, injecting his tone with sincerity because he had the feeling Jackson didn't bother with common courtesies when it came to his staff.

The waiter just shrugged and moved on to Jackson, who took his own tumbler and raised it to Stiles.

"Salut."

"Um, yeah. Cheers, I guess," Stiles muttered before he took a small sip of the drink. It burned going down and he wanted to gag — he really hated the taste of whisky — but instead he set it down after a courtesy sip and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he said, "So, tell me a lil' bouuut yrslfff." Stiles blinked, one elbow slipping off his knee as he began to list sideways in his seat. He blinked again, trying to get his thick glasses from Paris to sit right on his face so he could see through the wavery, watery lenses…

"You," he slurred, looking from Jackson's smirking face to his glass and back again. "You drg… me…"

Hands gone almost numb, he freed himself from his seatbelt and lunged for his messenger bag, getting the pack of T zone wipes in his grasping fingers, having some idea of knocking out Jackson in revenge, before the world swirled around him for the last time.

~*~

When he came to, Stiles smacked his lips together and winced at both the blinding headache lingering behind his eyes and the horrible case of dry mouth he had. "What the hell, man?" he whispered hoarsely. "You drugged me?"

Jackson looked up, eyebrows raised. "Of course I did. I had to go through your things, didn't I? Oh, and I had Paul destroy all your clothing. We'll get you more when we land in Budapest. John Steele. You're very lucky you didn't lie to me. You'll have to explain your thought process to me, though, because I cannot figure out why on earth your first instinct was to cleanse your pores when you realized I'd drugged you."

Stiles blinked at him, pushing himself into a less-slumped position as he tried to get his still-sluggish brain to think of something. Then he just shrugged. "No idea. I don't really remember anything after that first sip."

Jackson leaned forward, mouth open like he was going to continue questioning Stiles when the cockpit door opened and the waiter from earlier stepped out, a gun trained on… Jackson. 

Stiles' eyes flared wide, his eyes shooting toward his bag before realizing he'd never get anything useful out of it. And then he remembered the pen in his pocket. Heart pounding in fear, he stood with his hands raised, letting the waiter see how he trembled. "Hey, man, you don't have to—"

"Shut up, boy," the man said, his gun not wavering. 

And normally, Stiles would just stand aside and let the man shoot Jackson dead, but goddammit, they still needed to find the nuclear device. So Stiles took a deep breath and stepped in front of the gun, swallowing roughly as he searched his still-fuzzy brain for the name Jackson had called the guy earlier.

"Listen, Paul," he said, then flinched when Paul gave a shout of rage, his finger beginning to tighten on the trigger.

"My name! Is not! _Paul_!" He shouted, his voice heavily accented. 

Stiles blinked, then turned to look at Jackson for help, but he just shrugged and inspected his manicure. "You look like a Paul."

"My fucking name is Colin!" the man shrieked, charging toward Jackson, obviously having forgotten that Stiles was in his way.

But Stiles was prepared. With a sympathetic grimace, he said, "Hey, man, I know what it's like, all right? Jackson's a douchebag, right? But I can't let you kill him, okay? So just—"

"Oh no you don't, you fucker," another voice said, and Stiles glanced over to see yet another man hovering in the cockpit door with a gun in his hand.

Really, what the fuck? Airport security had really slipped with these two.

Stiles watched, eyes wide, as the two pilots got in a pissing match over which of them got to be the one to have the pleasure of killing Jackson.

"Oh, come on Paul," Jackson started, then cut himself off when the first pilot shot the second one… but not before the second got off a shot that punched a hole in the fuselage, sending the small plane into a steep dive.

"Fuck!" Stiles shouted, flying through the air as the ground lurched under him.

But the idiot with the gun wasn't done, and kept advancing on Jackson with his gun out until Stiles yelled out, "Hey, Paul!"

When the man rounded on him in fury, Stiles 'shot' him with the dart side of the pen that had still been in his pocket, watching as the man keeled over and landed on his gun, shooting himself in the stomach.

"Oh shit," Stiles whispered, blanching. But then turbulence hit him again, so he lurched his way to the cockpit of the plane, quickly getting it back under control and radioing ahead to let the air traffic authorities know the situation. He set the autopilot and swung around to let Jackson know everything was under control, only to be met with the barrel of a gun.

Pointed right at his head.

"Uh. Jackson? What's going on, man?"

Jackson glared at him, lips pulled back in a sneer as he said, "John Steele? Yeah, right. If you're a software engineer, I'm the queen of England. Now," he said in a low, menacing tone, "tell me who you really are before I blow your brains out."

Stiles considered and discarded five different plans to conserve his current identity before he chucked the whole idea out the window, opened his mouth, and started verbally tap dancing his way to safety.

"Get that fucking pansy ass piece of shit out of my face, you whiny little cock sucker. God, I should have let those idiots kill you, you know that?" Stiles shoved the gun down and away with a sneer, shoulder checking Jackson _hard_ on his way past. "Why the fuck David gave two shits about you—"

"David?"

"Yeah, you know, your daddy? Well," Stiles smirked, letting a too-knowing gaze drag down Jackson's body. "The man who raised you, anyway. He might have also been your daddy. I don't kinkshame."

"Oh my god, you disgusting creep," Jackson gasped. "David was my father!"

"Adoptive," Stiles said with a dismissive shrug. "I mean, the poor guy wanted a real son and all he got was you. A pretty boy douchebag with daddy issues and the most annoyingly whining voice. But whatever, he didn't hire me to like you, just to keep you alive."

Jackson stared at him in shock for a second before angry color began to darken his cheeks. "You? My father hired _you_? That's a joke, right? You're like, what? Sixteen? What are you going to save me from? Oily skin?"

"Shut your trap before I shut it for you, you stupid little bitch. I've saved your worthless ass three times today already. So why don't you sit down, suck your thumb like the little whiny baby you are, and let me land this damn plane since you're too fucking useless to do it yourself."

Jackson collapsed into the chair behind him in shock, the gun flipping around his lax fingers. 

"And give me that thing," Stiles snarled, quickly and efficiently stripping the weapon from Jackson's hand, "before you fucking shoot yourself with it. God!"

He safetied the gun before carefully tucking into the waistband of his pants, then ducked back into the cockpit. He flipped a couple of switches just for the hell of it before he heard Jackson moving around.

Still sounding suspicious, Jackson asked, "Is your name really John Steele?"

"Jesus Christ, you can't follow the simplest of instructions, can you? No, genius. My name is Lucky Charm." Stiles waited for Jackson's eyes to flare wide and his mouth to drop open before he growled, "Call me magically fucking delicious _one_ time. I fucking dare you."

When Jackson just snapped his jaw shut on any comment he might've wanted to make, Stiles huffed loudly. 

"Yeah, that's what I thought, bitch. Now, go sit your ass down like I told you to do. And put your goddamn tray table in an upright and locked position, or I swear to god, I'll shove it up your ass!" 

Jackson retreated out of view, but his voice came through seconds later, startling Stiles out of the quietest anxiety attack of his life.

"I don't have a tray table."

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles screamed, "Without lube! I will shove it up there without lube. Sideways!"

~*~

Maintaining his new, ultra aggressive personality was actually not nearly as difficult as Stiles might have imagined. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was a self-acknowledged asshole, but also? It really helped that every time he looked at Jackson, he saw Lydia's murderer.

When they finally made it to Jackson's hotel in Budapest, Stiles helped him from the car, insulting him offhandedly the entire time as he scanned their surroundings, looking for potential threats. God only knew when some poor soul Jackson had irritated would want to come along and shoot him.

"Where's all this business happening today? Who are you meeting?" Stiles thought to ask.

"That's none of your business," Jackson started to sneer, only to stop when Stiles got in his face again.

"Oh, okay, not my business? Yeah, that's a genius fucking move there, dumbass, not telling your goddamn head of security where you're going and who you're meeting. God, I may as well just put a bullet in you myself and save me and everyone else from your idiocy."

"Okay! God!" Jackson whined, once again that petulant teenager Stiles remembered from all the Whittemore family photos. "I'm meeting Peter Hale at Club Budapest tonight."

"A fucking club? Great. Excellent work, numbnuts. Just give me a huge venue and _no time_ to make arrangements for your safety." Going with the feel of his new character, Stiles thwacked Jackson on the back of his head. "Fucking dumbass. Get in the goddamn hotel."

Jackson's scowl pulled his face into ugly lines, but he did as told, going all the way into the hotel without fuss. Stiles followed behind him, making faces at himself for a few seconds, just to get the _what the fuck am I doing_ jitters out of his system. When they got to their adjoining rooms — Stiles having thrown a fit in the lobby until the hotel complied, upgrading some lucky honeymooning couple — Stiles waited until Jackson was through his door before going into his own room. 

Ignoring the comfortable surroundings, he inserted his earpiece, beginning to mutter, "Scott!" before he noticed a bug hidden in the corner of the room. Looking around, he saw several others, but not before he heard Scott's relieved shout of his name.

 _"Where the hell have you been?"_ Scott asked, his voice piercing through Stiles' ear drum. _"Stiles?"_

Stiles left his room, then muttered to himself about dumbass Jackson all the way through the hotel until he was out on the street, relatively safe from prying eyes or ears. "Scott, oh my god, I'm so sorry. My room was bugged. You are not going to believe where I am."

 _"I bet I do!"_ Scott cackled. _"But you'll never guess—"_

Stiles turned the corner at the end of the block, running right into… Scott!

"Where I am," Scott finished with a grin, grabbing him and leaping around in happiness. "When you disappeared, we tracked your earpiece! And then Argent sent me to find you. Isn't it amazing?! Look! I even got—"

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," Stiles half-shouted, looking Scott over. "You got normal clothes while they dressed me up like it was their one and only chance at a summer Halloween?! Where are your jumpsuits and ugly wigs, asshole?!"

"Yeah, I dunno, man," Scott said, preening as he smoothed down the collar of the silk shirt he was wearing. "Oh, and bonus! They let me have my spy name! Nice to meet you, Stiles, I'm Lucky Charm."

Stiles gaped at him, then opened his mouth to fill Scott in on the last ten hours, only to stop, ice freezing his veins, when he heard Jackson's voice shout, "Lucky!"

Spinning, he snapped, "What?!" just as he heard Scott pipe up with, "Yes?"

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Jackson approached, eyes flicking over Scott suspiciously, two men at his back. One was obviously another of his many disposable goons, all bulky muscle and small brain, but the other one… Stiles narrowed his own eyes at him, trying to place him in any of the intel he'd managed to compile on Jackson. 

"Who the hell is this?" Jackson asked, his mouth twisted sourly as he continued looking Scott over.

"You're _both_ named Lucky?" the handsome guy at Jackson's side asked, head cocked as he looked between Stiles and Scott, a too-intelligent look on his face.

"This is Stiles Stilinski," Stiles said, gesturing at Scott, who didn't do a very good job of keeping his shock contained. "He works for me, which means I know him. _I'm_ Lucky Charm. But you?" Pulling the gun Stiles had taken from Jackson on the plane, he pressed it up against the newcomer's forehead and hissed, "I don't know you. Who the hell are you?"

"Whoa," he heard Scott murmur, sounding far too impressed.

"What the fuck, Lucky? Put your damn gun down. We're in broad daylight, for god's sake!" When Stiles didn't move to comply, just pressing the barrel tighter to the dude's forehead, Jackson made a frustrated sound and said, "This is Danny. He's my best friend—"

"Wrong answer, dumbass!" Stiles half-shouted, making like he was going to shoot Danny. "Whiny assbabies like you don't have friends."

"I really am," Danny said, his voice too casual, like he'd been in similar situations a million times already. Stiles stared at him through narrowed eyes until Danny shrugged, reaching up to brush the gun off his forehead like he would a fly. "We've been friends since we were kids. Jackson might be an asshole, but…" Danny gave a wry grin, looking over at Jackson. "He's _my_ asshole."

For some strange reason, the sentiment made Stiles think of Derek Hale, and he couldn't stop his lips from twitching up into a grin of his own. Thumbing the safety his gun, Stiles was reaching to put it back where he'd drawn it from when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. 

It was a black sedan, speeding a little too fast around the corner, the window rolling down. Everything went slow motion then as Stiles caught the shadow of a gun barrel, something long and _automatic_ , before he leapt at Jackson, pushing him to the ground just as rapid gunfire broke out.

When the gunfire finally stopped, just a few seconds later as the car peeled off down the street, Stiles got up from his half-crouch and looked around. Scott was sitting up, Danny looked ruffled but unharmed, and the other bodyguard… Stiles blanched, stomach flipping. The man's brains were literally leaking out of a wound just behind his ear.

Danny caught sight of the guy just a few seconds later and let out a loud shout, drawing Jackson and Scott's attention. 

But Stiles didn't have time for that. "Scott," he snapped, "Get them back to the hotel. Lock them in if you have to. I'm going after that car!"

As Stiles jumped to his feet and turned around, he spotted a moped propped against a nearby lightpost. Grabbing it, Stiles started it up and sped off, hot on the trail of the car that had just gone out of sight around the next corner. Putting on a burst of speed, Stiles hopped onto the sidewalk, weaving in and out of people as he caught sight of the car through the windows of the building he was driving beside. The car made the next left turn, putting it parallel to the street Stiles was on, so he got back on the road itself and blew through the traffic stop at the corner, narrowly missing a van and two cars going through the intersection.

Adrenaline pumping, Stiles kept turning his head to check the progress of the car, which had slowed to a more sedate speed, letting Stiles have an opportunity to draw even with it. Even, but a whole block between them, which… 

Stiles looked ahead, his mind creating a path for him through the picturesque park a block and a half away. Speeding up again, he got to the park and put to use some skills he'd picked up from Erica Reyes in Rome, driving up a set of stone stairs, along a bridge over a little stream and down the side of a hill, avoiding screaming pedestrians the whole way. When he bumped back down onto the roadway again, he was right behind the car.

And the chase was on.

The black car growled as the driver put their foot in the gas, making it leap forward. And for all that Stiles was on the lesser of the two vehicles, his could make sharper turns and take cut throughs that the black car couldn't, keeping him on their ass all through the streets of Budapest. When Stiles was comfortable enough with the moped, he pulled his gun, lined up his shot, and blew out one of the tires of the car, causing it to careen out of control and crash right into a large, important looking statue right in the middle of a traffic circle. 

Screeching to a stop, Stiles abandoned his moped to run up beside the car, breaking out the side window with his gun to see…

"Theo?"

Agent Theo Raeken, a line of blood dripping down his forehead from where he'd hit the dashboard, looked up at Stiles in confusion. "Stilinski? What are you…"

"I'm on assignment. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm, uh, on assignment too," Theo said, movement behind him drawing Stiles' eyes to the man who'd been driving.

"Holy shit. Donovan? The bartender? What the hell?"

"Jesus Christ," Donovan muttered, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. "Can't you do anything fucking right, Raeken? You were supposed to kill those two idiots."

Stiles' eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he looked back at Theo, just in time to see Theo raising a gun and pointing it right at Stiles. "You're right," Theo said, smirking meanly. "But don't worry, I'll take care of that right—" His head snapped backward, a red hole opening up on his forehead as the crack of the rifle shot echoed in the distance.

Stiles leapt backward, taking cover as another shot rang out. "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuuuuck," Stiles whimpered, crawling around the car to get out of the line of fire. Looking up, he saw through the side mirror that Donovan had a matching head shot to Theo's, the gunman having taken them both out.

"What the fuck is going on?" he muttered to himself.

A crackle of static made him jump, startled, only to hear Chief Argent's voice in his ear. _"Stilinski? What the hell is going on there, Agent?"_

"That's a damn good question, sir," Stiles muttered, peeking up over the back of the car, trying to spot the gunman. The new gunman. 

Stiles dropped back down when he'd visually searched the entire area to no avail and quickly brought Argent up to date on the day's activities.

 _"Raeken?"_ Argent asked when Stiles stuttered to a finish. _"That bastard went rogue. He's a double agent. You're lucky someone took him out before he could get you."_

"He almost did, sir," Stiles confessed, vividly recalling the moments just before Raeken had died. 

_"Well, Stilinski, get back to the hotel. I'm sending Agent Reyes to your location to provide backup to you and McCall. You have to get Whittemore to his meeting with Hale tonight and find that nuclear device before we're too late."_

"Yes, sir," Stiles said, breathing deep and steadying himself for the night to come.

~*~

"This is your dream team?" Jackson scoffed that night as they sat around the roped-off VIP area of the club, eyes dragging disdainfully over Stiles, Scott, and Erica. "Awesome. Not only did Danny have to stay home to comfort his boyfriend over his brother's death—"

"Eh," Stiles said, "they were twins. You've got another goon just like him. Literally." Even Scott flinched at the meanness of that statement, making Stiles wince and mouth at him, _too much?_

Scott nodded apologetically, looking a bit pale still after his asthma attack earlier, brought on by the excitement of the shooting. The drive-by shooting. Not the sniper rifle shooting.

Stiles laughed a little crazily to himself, even as Jackson kept up his whiny little monologue.

"I'm putting my life in the hands of testicle left, testicle right, and the gaping vagina in between." Looking at Erica, he sneered, "You're the vagina, in case you were wondering."

"Shut the fuck up," Stiles bit out, ignoring how Erica preened at Jackson's statement, cupping herself through her clothes. 

"Or what?"

"Or I'll step aside and let the next bullet shut you up for me."

Unbelievably, Jackson shut up, sinking back in his seat with a heavy frown. "Whatever," he muttered, unable not to have the last word.

Stiles ignored him, scanning the room for any sign of Peter Hale. The club was filled with throbbing seas of people, all waiting for pop superstar Kira to arrive and start the concert the club had been booked for. Which, of course, just made Stiles' job far more difficult than it should have been — thank you so much, Jackson Fuckface. But it didn't stop the seas from parting long enough for Stiles to see a too-familiar dark head, even if the idiot had finally seemed to understand that he needed to disguise himself somehow.

With a sigh, Stiles signalled to Scott that he was going to walk the perimeter. When Scott nodded and took his place at the velvet rope, Stiles ducked under it and pushed through the crowd until he was right behind Hale.

Not Peter, of course, but Derek. The idiot one.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stiles half-shouted to make himself heard over the noise of a thousand bodies and the blaring music. 

Derek stiffened, then turned to him with a dark look on his face. "How did you spot me?"

"Oh, were you trying to go unnoticed? Dude, the bad 80's moustache and that bowl cut don't exactly help you blend."

Hands flying to his wig, Derek patted it down and muttered, "It's not a bowl cut."

"Why are you here, Derek?" Stiles asked, gritting his teeth, even as he noticed that they were drawing attention. Pushing and pulling on Derek until they were dancing up against each other to the sultry beat of the music, Stiles ignored the way Derek's hard body swayed and pulsed against his, wanting only the answer to his question.

Well, he _tried_ to ignore it.

"I want to stop him, Stilinski. I _need_ to stop him. You don't understand—"

"You're right! I don't understand. I'm literally here, in this country, for the express purpose of stopping your uncle, but every time I turn around, you're right there. Preventing me from doing so!"

"He's my responsibility, not yours." Derek pulled him in tighter, his eyes sparking under the lights of the club with his impassioned speech. "He killed my sister. You have to know how I feel; you want to kill Whittemore just as badly as I want to kill Peter."

"We're agents, Hale," Stiles said, shaking his head. "We're not murderers. If it comes to killing them, I won't lose any sleep, but it's not our main objective. You understand that, right? We're here — _I'm_ here — to stop the sale of a nuclear device."

Hale sagged, his forehead dropping to Stiles' shoulder as he moved almost awkwardly against Stiles. "I know. I'll watch your back. Just don't…"

"What? Get in the way?"

"Don't get yourself killed." Derek pulled away then, easing back into the thumping, jumping crowd until he disappeared entirely. 

Stiles cursed and looked around, eyes flying over the people closest to him, not noticing until that moment that he was right beside the entrance to the club. Glancing back toward the VIP area, Stiles noticed Scott staring toward the stage, where something was apparently happening, judging by Scott's excited expression and the renewed surge of energy in the whole club.

"Budapest!" a voice screamed over the loudspeaker. "Help me welcome to our lovely city, the reigning queen of the charts, Kira!!"

The crowd went wild, making it harder than ever for Stiles to see anything but the door… Not that it was necessary for him to see more, he realized. Because almost as soon as the beat of the first song of the concert started, Stiles saw the woman who'd accompanied Peter Hale to the casino in Rome. 

And if she was here… she'd know where Peter was. 

Stiles followed her through the club, thanking everything that she never turned around, never looked anywhere but right in front of her as she cut a deliberate path through the crowd of bodies. It didn't take long for them to get to wherever she was going, which was apparently the same place Peter Hale was, because through the bodies, Stiles saw him, his hands nearly shaking with excitement.

He'd found Peter, Jackson was here… and the woman was lifting a gun, aiming it right at Peter's head.

Stiles jumped, knocking into the woman and throwing her aim off. She whirled toward Stiles, punched him in the face, and then turned back only to see that Peter was staring right at her, his hand clutching at the sleeve of his jacket as fury darkened his face.

The woman hissed angrily, the sound so loud that Stiles could hear it over the music, and took off, pushing through the dancing bodies around them. Stiles had half a second to decide: stay on Peter, or go after the woman. 

Since Peter was a known player, Stiles made his decision, going after her quickly before he could lose her in the crowd. She stayed just ahead of him, looking back and snarling at him occasionally. When they cleared the crowd, he was hot on her heels, but she was fast, using her long legs to advantage as she pushed through a door marked Private and ran through corridors, leading Stiles on a merry chase. 

They finally ended up in a kitchen, where she pulled a long knife from a block and turned on Stiles, slashing at him with it. Stiles grabbed the first thing he found, a log of salami, which she quickly whittled down to a nub in his hand. Shouting in alarm, he grabbed up a tray, winging it at her like a frisbee, and feeling a little vindicated as it glanced off her forehead, leaving a red line behind.

"Who the fuck are you?" she nearly screamed in fury. 

"I think the question here is," Stiles huffed, picking up more things to throw at her, most of which, unfortunately, were food items, "who are you?"

"Call me Kali," the woman said, smiling dangerously before lunging at him with the knife once more. 

"Well, okay, Kali, nice to meet you. I'm Stiles Stilinski," Stiles said, bringing a cast iron pot down on top of her head and knocking her out cold. "And you're under arrest. I think," he muttered as she slumped to the floor. "Not entirely sure if I can arrest you, seeing as how you're probably not a US citizen and I don't have jurisdiction here. Or handcuffs or—"

"Hello, Lucky," Jackson said from behind him. "Or should I say, Agent Stilinski?"

Stiles sighed, bringing the pan in his hand back up and preparing to coldcock Jackson too. Turning around, he grinned, losing the very last of his fucks. "What gave me away?"

"My lover."

"Who's that? Danny? Yeah, he seems like he got all the combined intelligence of your little crew."

"Not quite."

There was a sigh then, and not from Jackson, but from _Lydia_ who stepped out from behind Jackson and said, "That would be me. Sorry, Stiles," she said, smiling sweetly as she held up a seashell, the words No Homo emblazoned across it, and dashed it to the ground at his feet.

~*~

Stiles came to splayed out on a rock-hard surface, his hands long gone numb as they were wrapped around whatever he was laying on. Cracking his eyes open, he winced through the inevitable headache, and looked down to find that the hard surface he was laying on was Derek Hale, who was looking back at him with a pinch-eyed expression.

A clacking of heels made Stiles stiffen and he hissed, "Close your eyes" at Derek, who instantly complied. Stiles shut his too, but it didn't seem to help, because as soon as the clacking stopped, he heard Lydia sigh.

"Stiles," she whispered. "Wake up. Come on, I have to get out of here before Jackson finds me."

Stiles turned his head, spearing her with all the disappointed rage he was feeling at her. "Your lover, you mean?"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Give me some credit, Stiles. I went off grid because I needed to get close to him; someone had to. He definitely wasn't going to bring you to the meet tonight. Now, I have to go save the world, but first…" She reached forward, wriggling her finger in his ear until she pulled out his earpiece. "I need this more than you do. Just stay here. I'll come back for you."

She stood up, rushing to the door. 

"Wait!" Stiles hissed. "Lydia, what about Scott? Erica? What happened to them?"

Lydia turned back, her teeth sinking into her lip as she obviously warred with herself over whether to stay and explain things to him. Instead, she just muttered, "They're safe. They're alive. I have to go."

"Goddammit," Stiles snarled as she took off again, shutting the door behind her. "She couldn't even have untied us?"

"We aren't tied," Derek said, startling Stiles. "We're secured with wrist-manacles."

Stiles slumped against him and then thought of something. "Can you feel your hands?"

"What? Yes, of course. You can't?"

"No, because your heavy ass is laying on them." Trying to push up, Stiles slipped and found himself sliding between Derek's thighs in a way that was slightly more than suggestive. "Okay, listen. Our hands must be near each other—"

"Yes, they secured us together at the wrist."

"Good, good," Stiles muttered. "Can you tell if I'm wearing a watch still?"

Derek wriggled around a bit as he obviously moved his hands behind him. Unfortunately, the wriggling made their hips press and slide against each other in a way that made Stiles' body stir to life. 

Gritting his teeth, Stiles tried to think of anything he could that would stop his dick from choosing this _highly inappropriate_ moment to plump up in his pants.

"Rubber?" Derek asked, wriggling meaningfully against Stiles again, a little moan falling from his lips.

"No, I don't have one!" Stiles hissed, scandalized at the suggestion. "Besides, we don't have time to—"

"Is the watchband made of rubber?" Derek asked, his voice flat and judgemental, if still slightly breathless.

"Oh." Stiles nearly died right then and there from embarrassment. He could only hope that his future included sleepwalking off the roof of a skyscraper. "Yeah. It is."

"Then yes, you're still wearing it."

Stiles slumped, relief flooding him. "Oh good," he muttered into the warm skin of Derek's neck. "There's a button on the side of it. If you press it for two seconds, it's a laser beam. It'll cut through our manacles."

Derek nodded, rubbing the side of his face against the top of Stiles' head, then started wriggling again in an attempt to find the button. "Sorry," he huffed when he had to jut his hips forward, grinding up hard against Stiles.

Stiles, gasping into Derek's neck, just uttered a high and breathy, "No problem. Just, um…" 

"I have to—" Derek lifted his hips again, rolling them against Stiles, who damn near sobbed as his fully-hard dick rubbed up against the swollen bulge of Derek's. "I have to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles hummed. "Okay."

He lay there, head swimming as sparks of lust and pleasure shot through him with every roll of Derek's hips. He got into the action himself, rocking down as much as he could, mind wiped of everything but—

"Got it!" Derek shouted in his ear, just as the first drops of precome began to wet the inside of Stiles' underwear. Derek jackknifed up to a sitting position, dragging Stiles with him, massaging Stiles' wrists until the pins and needles in his arms and hands were so painful that they squelched the situation in his pants.

"Holy shit," Stiles breathed. "We—

"Won't talk about it," Derek said with a grimace, adjusting himself in his pants, but not before giving one last long look at Stiles' mouth. "We have to go after Lydia and Jackson before the sale happens."

"Lydia is—

"An unknown entity. She might be deep undercover, or she might be a double agent," Derek said, getting to his feet and helping Stiles up. "We need to find some weapons and go after them, just in case. Besides, even if she _is_ still with us, she may need the backup. After all," he said with a half-grin, "she's having to make do with someone else directing her op right now."

Stiles looked up, wondering if Derek could possibly mean what he thought. 

"Someone who's not you," Derek clarified and Stiles had to duck his head to hide a pleased grin. "Now, come on. The world needs saving."

Stiles followed after Derek, who was racing down the hallways of the building they'd been locked up in. "Wait," he hissed. "We still don't know where they're meeting up."

"Check your watch," Derek whispered back, slowing down as they neared a corner. "It's a calculator type, right?"

"Yeah," Stiles muttered, chancing a quick glance down at the watch on his wrist while holding his breath and tiptoeing along behind Derek like he was strolling through a graveyard… and hoping the graveyard didn't end up being his own.

"Type in your agent number. It should give you coordinates. The watch is linked with your earpiece, if it's anything like the ones they've given me. The coordinates will take us right to Lydia."

"Holy shit," Stiles breathed, quickly typing in his number to the calculator keypad and watching as it did exactly what Derek had said it would. "That's brilliant. Why didn't Isaac tell me that?"

"Huh? Oh, Isaac's totally jealous of you. Thinks you and McCall are together."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Wait here," Derek said before darting around the corner. There came the sound of muffled thuds, like fists landing against bone and muscle, before Derek called out, "Clear. I've got us some guns."

Stiles peeked around the corner, eyes flaring wide as he saw that Derek had taken out two heavily-armed guards. "How the hell did you do that?"

Derek smirked at him, looking a little too pleased with himself. "I'm _the_ field agent."

Stiles just stared at him, lips parted, impressed despite himself.

Transferring all the weapons to themselves, they tied up the guards and left them in a storage closet before rushing out of what was apparently a country estate. Stiles ran to the first vehicle he saw, a little old European model that would be easy to hotwire, when he heard Derek shout his name. Looking up, he glanced around until he spotted Derek, who was standing with one foot inside the driver's door of a low-slung, gleaming black sports car. 

"Get in," Derek said, jerking his head at the passenger door.

Stiles nodded dumbly, nearly tripping over himself to get in, the door slamming just as Derek shoved it into gear and took off, spraying the driveway gravel behind them.

~*~

Stiles watched through a pair of binoculars they'd found in the car as it careened around a corner, feeling a burst of pain in his heart as the car smashed into a tree, drawing the attention of all the guards around the building the coordinates had brought them to.

"This was a good plan," Derek grumbled at his side, a little pouty. 

"I know," Stiles said, smiling happily. "It was mine. You're pretty, dude, but you're not so great with the plans. 'Just drive through the front doors,'" he scoffed. "What on earth are your analysts teaching you?"

"They don't really talk to me much. Just tell me when I've got hostiles on my tail."

"What?" Stiles lowered the binoculars and looked at him, anger filling him. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Stiles said, tugging on Derek's arm as he spotted an opening for them. "We'll change that when we get back to Langley. For now, let's go." 

Staying low, they ran at a half-crouch across the grounds and up a small hill to the side door, slipping inside and immediately going on the defensive. The room they'd entered appeared to be some sort of mudroom and was completely empty, but there was an echo of voices, one of which sounded like… "That's Jackson," Stiles hissed.

Derek nodded and pressed two fingers to Stiles' lips, silencing him. Holding up his hands, he used signals to indicate that he was going to lead them. Considering that for a second, Stiles shook his head, grabbing Derek's hands with his. 

_No one will be expecting you,_ he signed. _I'll go in. You back me up._

Derek shook his head, glaring darkly, but Stiles just grinned and darted around him, using the element of surprise to slip past. 

"Hello, Jackson," Stiles said loudly, striding into the room, guns in both hands pointing at…. Uh. 

Oh shit. He needed more guns. 

The room was _packed_ with people. Lydia and Jackson were standing off to the side of the room with Peter and about twenty armed guards and one man who very definitely wasn't anyone's bodyguard. And, oddly enough, Roscoe the Porsche. 

The new player was standing there with a slight smile on his face, dark glasses covering his eyes, and a cane in his hand. The cane was long and white with a red tip and holy hell. This was Deucalion, leader of one of the most notorious terrorist organizations known only as Alpha. Stiles swallowed roughly, shifting one gun to point at him.

Peter sent Stiles a withering look before he made a gesture that dismissed every single thing about Stiles. "What's this? Another CIA agent?" Peter turned to look at Jackson, rolling his eyes. "Let me guess. He's _another_ double agent? First Raeken, then the lovely Ms Martin here, and now… What's your name, boy?"

Jackson scoffed. "That's Stilinski," he said, waving his hand around. "The bumbling CIA analyst who came after me with the idea of avenging the life of the woman he loved." He laughed snidely, mockingly clapping his hands together. "Good job, loser."

Lydia startled, her green eyes going from bored to wide and questioning as she swung them toward Stiles. 

"That's right. I'm Stiles Stilinski," Stiles confessed, glaring hotly. "I've been half in love with Lydia Martin for years, watching her trot off saving the world just like the men around her, only backward and in heels. And it doesn't fucking matter, does it? She barely knew I existed other than as some errand boy to walk her dog and fetch her dry cleaning. But you know what? I don't care. I'm over it. I'm no longer here for Lydia; I'm here to arrest everyone in this room."

"Oh? Well," Peter said. "Good luck with that." He smiled sharply at Stiles just before something — or someone — pinched a nerve in Stiles' neck that made his entire body go numb. He slumped to the floor and his guns were stripped from him just that fast.

Well, fuck.

Stiles was herded by one of the many faceless guards toward the corner of the room where Jackson and Lydia were standing. Or, really, posing more like, with how they looked like the couple on the cover of a magazine, her red haired beauty just highlighting Jackson's pale perfection. The bastard.

Looking away from that view, Stiles watched as the sale went down around him, Peter demanding to see the payment before Jackson would reveal the location of the nuclear device — a suitcase nuke, from the sounds of things. Eyes flickering between Peter and Deucalion and trying to keep track of all the guards as well, Stiles witnessed the opening of a briefcase that was quite literally filled with gleaming diamonds. 

He couldn't hold in a gasp of appreciation at the sight. What? They were beautiful.

Peter verified the quality of the diamonds before turning to Jackson with a raised eyebrow, obviously waiting for him to give them the location of the nuke. Jackson just smiled, smug as hell, and sauntered over to Roscoe, opening the trunk with a press of his fingers. Reaching in, he fit his fingers into a hidden slot in the carpeting and with a loud beep, the entire trunk rearranged itself, a suitcase lifting out on hydraulics.

"There you are, gentlemen."

Peter tilted his head, a small smile on his face. "It was right under my nose the whole time," he murmured to himself. Eyes lifting to Jackson's face, he said, "No wonder you let me use your precious vehicle."

"I wasn't going to have any potential radiation leaks happening under _my_ ass," Jackson said with an insouciant shrug.

"Hmm." Peter turned around, that smile still curling his lips. "Well, I'd like to thank you both for coming today, but," in a move that was entirely synchronized, Peter shot Deucalion through the head at the same time each of his guards took out one of Deucalion's, "I think I can do more with this than either of you." He turned to Jackson, his gun still raised, obviously ready to shoot all three of them, but just at that moment, Derek lunged through the doorway, wielding both the guns in his hands with precision accuracy, taking down six of Peter's guards before anyone could react.

Instead of shooting Derek, Peter snarled at him and grabbed both the suitcase out of the Porsche and the diamonds, running from the room before anyone could stop him.

Jackson, finally catching up with what was going on, screeched in fury, but Lydia was faster than anyone, chopping him in the back of the neck with one quick blow that had him falling to the ground in a slump. She looked up, grinning at Stiles before a look of horror crossed her face. Leaping forward, she twisted her body, just as a shot rang out in the room and she jerked in mid-air.

Stiles gasped, heart nearly stopping in his chest as he realized that she'd taken a bullet meant for him. 

"Stiles," she said, hand weakly flopping toward his face before falling back to her chest with a grimace. "Go after Peter. You can't let him get away. We'll never find him or the nuke again. Save the world."

"Yeah," Stiles said, nodding even as tears filled his eyes. "I'll do that. You just… don't die."

Lydia's eyelashes fluttered, even as she rolled her eyes, her pale cheeks pinkening with color. "Please. Like I would. Dying is not on my agenda for the day. Though I swear, I'm going to kill that idiot who shot me. This is _Versace_!"

Stiles let out a little laugh at that. "Never change, Lydia," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead before getting up and racing toward the door that Peter had disappeared through. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see Derek running toward him.

Stiles grinned, feeling a whole lot wild and reckless. "Race you!" he called, then put on a burst of speed, barrelling through the doors to see Peter several yards in front of them, running toward a helicopter whose blades were just beginning to spin. Stiles took off after him, not quite able to reach the helicopter before Peter scrambled inside, but with a leap, he grabbed onto the skids, letting out a whimper as the helicopter lifted into the air.

In seconds, Stiles felt himself being jerked downward and looked to see that Derek was hanging off his body. "Holy shit, dude," he screamed. "Let go! I can't hold us both."

Derek looked torn, but finally let go, just as the helicopter was turning over a wide lake. "Don't let Peter get away with it," he yelled as he fell into the water with a huge splash.

Setting his jaw, Stiles muttered, "I won't," knowing that it wasn't only the nuke that Derek had been talking about. Arms shaking, he pulled himself up onto the skid until he could set his feet on it and reached for the door of the helicopter. Pulling it open as quietly as he could, he looked in and saw Peter… and on the floor beside him, some hapless pilot with a bullet in his head.

Okay then.

Stiles climbed into the helicopter and went to shut the door behind him, Peter still unaware that he was there. But before the door latched, Stiles had a brilliant idea. Grabbing the suitcase nuke and the diamonds, Stiles shouted, "Peter!" He waited until Peter looked over, eyes wide and nostrils flaring with anger, and then heaved both cases out of the helicopter, knowing the nuke would fall into the depths of the lake where the CIA could find and retrieve it. 

The diamonds… well, he couldn't say he _didn't_ care, but at least this way if Peter got away now, he wouldn't have them. 

"You little bastard," Peter snarled, doing something with the controls that sent Stiles flying forward, smashing face-first into the windshield and stunning him. "I'm going to kill you."

Stiles staggered upright, raising his fisted hands as he swung around toward Peter. "Oh yeah?" he mumbled around the blood filling his mouth. He was pretty sure he'd bit a chunk of his tongue, or maybe just cut the hell out of his cheek. Spitting it out so that the blood sprayed across Peter's face, Stiles smiled. "Come on and do it then."

Peter set the controls and let them go, unbuckling from his seat and flinging the headset aside. He reached out and grabbed Stiles with one hand and raised the other…. The other that was holding the gun he'd shot the pilot with.

Shit.

Stiles looked down the barrel, letting out a wheezy little laugh. Somehow he'd known this mission would end like this. Closing his eyes, he said, "Do it," just before a muffled shot rang out.

When he didn't immediately die — or, at least, he was fairly sure he wasn't dead — Stiles opened his eyes again to see a bloom of red spreading across Peter's chest and a look of surprised horror on Peter's face. Through the clear cockpit door behind Peter, Stiles watched as another helicopter came into view, Scott hanging out the side of it with a huge ass gun in his hands, waving cheerily at Stiles.

Shoving open the door behind Peter, Stiles shouted, "Holy shit!"

"I know, man!" Scott shouted back.

"You saved my fucking life!"

"Of course I did! You're my bro! I wasn't going to let that asshole kill you!"

Stiles laughed, shaking all over with the adrenaline rush. "Where the hell did you get that helicopter, man?"

"Kira!" Scott leaned to the side, showing the beautiful, grinning face of probably the most famous woman on earth. "She let me borrow it after she had me arrested for jumping on her at the club."

Confused, Stiles shouted, "What?!"

"I had to create a diversion for you," Scott said, holding his hands up in a _what are you gonna do?_ gesture…. And dropping his gun in the process. "I'll tell you all about it when we land."

Stiles shook his head, laughing to himself as he went to shove Peter out the door. Only when he grabbed Peter by the shirt to move him, he looked down and saw Peter looking right back at him, his shaking hand coming up and grabbing Stiles right back, dragging Stiles with him as he went to throw them _both_ from the helicopter.

And then Peter looked at his hand, his face twisting in revulsion as he muttered, "That's the ugliest fucking pin I've ever seen."

Distracted, Stiles looked down to see that the thing Peter was latched onto was the pug pin Lydia had given him all those weeks ago. And as he watched, the glue holding the pug to the pin ripped away and with it Peter, who tumbled backward out of the helicopter, falling hundreds of feet to the water, smacking into it in a way that had to have shattered every bone in his body.

Stiles flinched and looked up, grimacing as he noticed that Scott had seen the whole thing and was currently losing his lunch out the side of the helicopter he was riding in. Shaking his head, Stiles climbed into the pilot's seat and studied the controls, then studied them some more.

And then he gulped. 

He had no fucking clue how to land a helicopter.

With a deep breath, Stiles grabbed the controls and flipped the switch that was apparently the autopilot and then let out a little scream as the helicopter instantly began to drop out of the sky. Grappling with the controls, Stiles pulled until he was somewhat leveled out, then let them dip again, and then again, lowering his altitude in small increments until he was at a safe distance from the water. Looking toward the shoreline, Stiles took a deep breath, reset the autopilot, braced himself in the open door long enough to breathe a swift but heartfelt prayer, and jumped.

~*~

"Good work, Agent Stilinski," Chief Argent said, slapping Stiles on the back and handing him a packet. "Since you performed so well on this mission, I have a new one for you."

Stiles looked from Argent to Lydia to Derek to Scott and then looked down at the packet in his hands. "Holy shit," he whispered. "Really?"

"Yes, and you have a few days before you have to be on site, so I suggest you get some rest and recover." 

"Wow," Scott breathed as Argent walked away, talking to some local Interpol agent. "Oh man, dude, what identity did they give you this time?"

Ripping into the packet, Stiles looked down and saw... "Oh for _fuck's_ sake. International dog trainer? _And_ I have to wear that itchy ass wig again?! This isn't fair!" he whined.

Lydia laughed, tossing her hair over her heavily bandaged shoulder. "Oh, Stiles, I'm sure Chief Argent is just joking. That's not a real identity."

Chief Argent, walking back by, looked over and said, "It's real. I don't have a sense of humor."

Scott winced, then shrugged. "He really doesn't. Remember when I tried to date his daughter?"

Stiles shuddered, nodding. Even Derek lost a little of the color in his face before pulling Stiles to the side. 

"Listen, Stilinski, I, um… Thanks. You know, for doing what I couldn't." Derek flicked his gaze up to Stiles', then looked away again, obviously uncomfortable. "And Argent was right. You did great work on this mission. I'm sorry I was such a hindrance to you."

"Hey, what? Hindrance? Nah, dude, you saved the day," Stiles said, punching him in the shoulder. "Got us out of those manacles and took out all the guards and… Theo? Was that you? Did you know he was a double agent?"

Derek looked at him in confusion. "Theo? You mean Raeken? He was… oh, that _bastard_. I always hated him!"

"Well, if you didn't take him and Donovan out, who did?" Stiles asked, just before Lydia joined them again. 

"That man couldn't make a Manhattan to save his life. Plus, the service was shitty," Lydia said, studying her manicure and scowling when she noticed a chip in one finger.

"And Raeken?" Stiles asked. 

"Well, he was trying to kill _you_ , and we all know I'd wither away without you, Stiles." She grinned prettily, then bit her lip and gave him a look he couldn't interpret. "So, um, about what you said back there… about being in love with me?"

Beside her, Derek stiffened, a hurt little expression crossing his face before he went blank and stared out across the lake. 

Taking a deep breath, Stiles shook his head. "Nah. I mean, you're lovely and all, Lydia, but… I'm kinda more into assholes, you know?" He winked at her. "In more ways than one."

"Well, that's just disappointing," a husky voice said in a heavy Italian accent, and Stiles turned to see Erica standing behind him, eyes roving over him like he was a prime cut of steak. "I was hoping to further our _friendship_ , if you know what I mean." Then she laughed and shook her head, her entire demeanor changing with her voice when she said in flat, midwestern American English, "I'm just kidding, Stiles." Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his cheek that turned into a long, wet lick of her tongue before the Italian was back. "Or am I? _Ciao, bello_."

"Hey, Stiles," someone else called, sending Stiles spinning around, searching for… wait. Was that Jackson?! "Get on the phone and call my lawyer. Also, let Danny know I'll—"

"Do you still think I _work_ for you?" Stiles asked, jaw dropping.

Jackson just scowled and said, "Do it."

"Yeah, how about no. Fuck you, Jackass. You're going away for a long, long time, you scummy little lizard." 

"Lizard?" Derek asked, his voice extremely close to Stiles' ear. 

"Eh, it's been a long day," Stiles said, turning back to Derek and trying to find some way to ask the man to dinner. He wasn't exactly sure what they'd have to talk about now that they wouldn't be spending the entire meal yelling at each other, but…. 

"Yeah, so. I guess you're going back to your hotel. Get some rest before you have to leave on your next mission?" Derek toed the ground, a flush darkening his cheeks and reddening the tips of his ears.

Stiles smiled. "Sure but you know, I could eat. Do you wanna—"

"Oh man, me too!" Scott said excitedly, and Stiles stiffened, having completely forgotten that his best friend was standing there. "And hey!" Scott said, nearly squeaking with suppressed excitement. "I owe Kira a meal for everything she did to help us out. Oh my god, do you think I should invite her to go with us?" His eyes were big and round, and as Stiles watched, he lifted his inhaler to his lips and took a puff of it.

"Yeah, dude," Stiles said. "You should. I bet she'll be happy to go to dinner with you."

"Us, bro!" Scott said, bumping their shoulders together and accidentally knocking Stiles into Derek. "Oh, and we should invite Erica, too. Kira has this bodyguard… I think they'll get along really well."

Stiles laughed and nodded, waving Scott off. "So, um. How about it? Dinner with me and my best friend and our frankly insane new acquaintances?"

Derek looked around them at all the clean up activity, his eyebrows creasing. "I, uh, I should probably let you have some alone time with your friends. After all, I've got to secure some sort of room for myself and—"

"Screw that, dude." Stiles grabbed the front of Derek's shirt and tugged, pulling him into a long, hot kiss. "I have a big ol' room and Jackson's already paid for it through the end of the week. Help me empty the wet bar?"

Derek swallowed hard, his gleaming lips all bruised and plump looking, his colorful eyes dazed. "Yeah," he whispered, hands coming up so he could thread his fingers in the longish hair at the back of Stiles' head. "Sounds like a plan," he breathed into Stiles' mouth, leaning back in for another kiss.


	2. Art for Stiles Stilinski: Spy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the art gathered together so you can all properly coo over it. :D <3, Eey

**Author's Note:**

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